'Sparing and soft is their speech,--but malice is lurking behind it!'
'Sparing and soft is their speech,--but malice is lurking behind it!'
and who would have believed that the said heathen was gifted with a prophetic vision of future cowl-bearing wickedness?
"Yet I was still harmlessly enjoying my life, waiting to see, whether amongst the scanty murmurs of the brothers, some sparks of philosophical wisdom would shine forth. All remained dark however, for they were preparing the arms of cunning.
"Amongst their numbers, there was also a young convent-pupil and his uncle, who--well, who was no better than he should be! They called him a worthy teacher of the school; although to me he appeared rather to look at the world with the eyes of a turtle-dove. Of this languishing-looking wiseacre I shall have to say more, presently. Listen, and judge of his deed!
"Walking up and down, he instigated the convent-pupil to become a partaker of his base design.
'Night had come, and with it the time for grief-stilling slumber:After the sumptuous meal, Bacchus exacted his rights'----
'Night had come, and with it the time for grief-stilling slumber:After the sumptuous meal, Bacchus exacted his rights'----
when an evil star prompted my making a mistake in the use of acasus, in the Latin table speeches we held together; using anaccusativus, where I ought to have put anablativus.
"Now it became evident, in what kind of arts, that far-famed teacher had instructed his pupil, all day long. 'Such an offence against the laws of grammar, deserved the rod,' mockingly said that little imp, tomethe well-tried scholar; and he further produced a rhymed libel, which his fine teacher must have prompted him to, and which caused a rough cisalpine burst of laughter in the refectory, at the expense of the stranger guest.
"But who does not know what the verses of a set of overbearing monks, must be like? What do such as they know of the inner structure of a poem, where all must be artistically built up, to produce a fine and pleasing effect? What of the high dignity of poetry?--They pucker up their lips, and spout forth a poem, like to that Lucilius, who has been branded by Horace; and who, whilst standing on one foot only, dictated two hundred verses and more, before an hour had elapsed.
"Judge now, ye venerable brothers, what insults have been heaped on me; and what must be the character of the man, who can upbraid his fellow-creature for mistaking anablativus!"
The man, who intending only a harmless jest, had committed this fearful crime, was Ekkehard. But a few weeks before the sudden turn in his fate brought him to the Hohentwiel, the terrible deed had been done. With the coming morn on the next day, he had forgotten the conversation that had taken place at supper with the overbearing Italian, but in the bosom of him, who had been convicted of the wrongablativus, was matured a rancour as fierce and gnawing as that, which, caused by the war-deeds of Achilles, drove the Telamonian Aïas, to destroy himself, and which followed him even into the Hades.
He rode towards the north out of the valley along through which the Sitter rushes; he saw the Bodensee and the Rhine, and thought of theablativus! He entered the grey and ancient gates of Cologne, and crossed the frontiers of Belgium,--but the falseablativussat behind him on the saddle like an incubus. The cloister-walls of the holy Amandus could not exclude it; and in the early psalms at morning, and during the litany and vespers, theaccusativus, rose before his mind, exacting its expiatory sacrifice.
Of all the unpleasant days of one's life, those imprint themselves deepest in our minds, in which by our own fault, a humiliation has befallen us. Instead of being angry with one's self, one easily bears an ill will towards all those, who were the involuntary witnesses of our defeat. The human heart is so very unwilling to confess its own failings; and many a one who unmoved can think of past battles and dangers, feels his blood rush into his cheeks, at the recollection of some foolish word, which escaped him just then, when he would have liked so much to have made a brilliant remark.
Therefore Gunzo was bent on taking his revenge on Ekkehard, and he had an able and sharp pen, and had spent many a month over his work, so that it became a master-piece of its kind. It was a black soup, made up of hundreds of learned quotations, richly seasoned with pepper and worm-wood, and all those spicy, bitter things, which before all others, give such a delicious flavour to the controversies of ecclesiastical men.
Besides this, a delightful undercurrent of rudeness pervaded the whole; so that the reader feels as though a man were being thrashed with regular flails, in a neighbouring barn. This makes a very pleasant contrast to our present times, in which the poison is presented in the shape of gilt pills; and when the combatants first exchange a polite bow, before they break each others heads.
The treatise was divided into two parts; the first serving to prove, that only an ignorant and uncultivated mind could be shocked by so slight an error, as the mistaking of acasus; whilst the second was written in order to convince the world that the author himself, was the wisest, most learned, and at the same time most pious of all his contemporaries.
For this end he had read the classics and the holy Scriptures, in the sweat of his brow, so that he could make a list of all the places in which the caprice, or negligence of the author, had also misplaced anablativus. So he managed to name two in Virgil, one in Homer, Terence and Priscianus. Further an example out of Persius, where the ablative stands in the place of the genitive, besides a number of instances out of the books of Moses, and the Psalms.
And if a number of such instances, can be found even in the holy Scriptures, who is so wicked, that he would dare to blame or change, such a mode of expression? Wrongly, therefore believes the little monk of St. Gall, that I was not well versed in the grammar; although my tongue may sometimes be impeded, by the habits of my own language, which, though derived from the Latin, is yet very different from it. Now, blunders are made, through carelessness, and human imperfection in general; for, says Priscianus very truly: "I do not believe, that of all human inventions, a single one, can be perfect in all respects, and on all sides. In like manner, Horace has often taken it on himself, to excuse negligences of style and language, in eminent men: 'sometimes even the good Homer is slumbering,' and Aristotle says in his book on thehermeneia: 'All that, which our tongue utters, is merely an outward expression of that which is stamped on our mind. The idea of a thing, therefore is always pre-existent before the expression, and therefore the thing itself is of far greater importance, than the mere word. But whenever the meaning is abstruse, thou shalt patiently, and with thy reasoning powers, try to find out the real import.'"
Then there followed innumerable classical examples of awkward and negligent expressions of thought, which ended with the words of the Apostle, who calls himself, "unskilled, with regard to speech, but not unskilled in knowledge."
"If one therefore examines the behaviour of my antagonist of St. Gall, one feels tempted to believe, that he had once invaded the garden of some wise man; from one of whose hot-beds he had stolen a radish, which had discomposed his stomach and increased his gall. Let everybody therefore keep a sharp look-out on his garden. Evil communications, corrupt good manners.
"Yet it is possible also, that he could not have done otherwise; for having perchance rummaged the whole day long, in the remotest folds of his cowl, to find something wherewith to regale the stranger guest, and not finding anything else, but cunning and malice, he let his guest taste a bit of that. Bad men have evil possessions.
"With his behaviour, his outward appearance,--which we did not fail carefully to investigate,--was in strict harmony. His countenance bore a pale lustre, like bad metal, used for the adulteration of the genuine; his hair was crimped; his hood finer and daintier than necessary, and his shoes of light make,--so that all the signs of vanity were found on him, which were a vexation in the eyes of St. Hieronymus, when he wrote: 'To my great regret, there are some of the clergy in my parish, who are very anxious for their garments to be well scented and their nails well polished; who anoint their curled hair with precious ointments, and who wear dainty, embroidered shoes. Such garments, however, are scarcely fitted for a dandy and bridegroom, let alone for one of the Lord's elected.'
"Further I have reflected, whether the sound of his own name, was not in harmony with his actions likewise. And what now? Ekkhard, or Akhar, was his name,--as if already at his baptism, by dint of a prophetic providence, he had been stigmatized with the name of a malefactor; for who does not know of that Akhar who appropriated to himself a purple mantle, as well as two hundred bags of silver, and a golden wedge, out of the booty at Jericho, so that Joshuah, had him led out into a remote valley, where he was stoned to death, by all Israel; and all he possessed was given up to the flames?--Of such a man his namesake of St. Gall, has shown himself to be a worthy successor; for he who disregards the laws of politeness and good breeding, acts as badly as a thief. He purloins the gold of true wisdom.
"If it were permitted to believe in the transmigration of souls, such as Pythagoras has taught, it would be beyond all doubt, that the soul of the Hebrew Akhar, had entered the frame of this Ekkehard, and in this case one ought to pity it, as it were better to dwell in the body of a fox even, than in that of a crafty and cunning monk. All this which I have said until now, has been said without any personal hatred. My hatred is directed only against the man's inherent wickedness. Consequently I only detest an attribute of his and not the substance itself, which we are bound to honour, as God's likeness, according to Scripture.
"Please to observe now," continued Gunzo in the second part of his book, "how insanely my enemy has acted against the benefits of science and knowledge. More than a hundred written volumes, had I brought with me, over the Alps; weapons of peace, such as Marcianus' flowery instructions in the seven liberal arts; Plato's unfathomable depth in hisTimæus; the obscure wisdom of Aristotle, hardly lighted up in our present days, in his book on thehermeneia, and Cicero's eloquence in theTopica.
"How serious and faithful might our conversation not have been, if they had questioned me, about these treasures! How could I imagine that such as I, whom God has so richly gifted, would be ridiculed on account of mistaking acasus! I who know Donat and Priscianus almost by heart!
"It is probable that that empty coxcomb believes, that he carries the whole of theGrammatica, in his hood,--but beloved brethren, believe me--he has scarcely had a glimpse of her back in the distance, and if he were to try, to catch sight of her radiant countenance, he would stumble, and fall to the ground, over his own awkward feet. TheGrammaticais a noble woman, who wears for a woodcutter an aspect very different from that she has for an Aristotle.
"But how shall I speak to you of grammar's sister, of dialectics, whom that Greek sage has called, the nurse of intellect? Oh noble art! that entangles the fool in her nets, whilst showing the wise man how to evade them, and discloses to our wondering eyes, the hidden threads, by which being and not-being are linked together! But of that, yon cowl-bearing monk knows nothing! Nothing of that subtle fineness, which with nineteen kinds of syllogisms, knows how to explain all that, which has ever been thought before, as well as all that which can be thought hereafter. God is wise, and deprives him of such knowledge; knowing beforehand that he would only use it for deceitful and wicked ends ..."
In this way the learned Italian proved his superiority in all the liberal arts. To rhetoric and all its treasures, a whole chapter was dedicated, in which certain persons, to whom the Goddess Minerva had once appeared in their dreams; and fools who believed that brevity of expression is a proof of wisdom, were pointedly alluded to. Then arithmetic, geometry and astronomy were discussed; interspersed with deep investigations, on the questions, whether the stars were gifted with intellectual souls, and a claim on immortality; and further whether at the time when Joshuah had said: "Sun stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou moon in the valley of Ajalon," he had also imposed immobility on the other five planets; or whether these had been allowed to continue their circular motion.
A profound sounding of this problem, offered an opportunity of speaking first of the harmony of the spheres, and then of music in general, as the last of the liberal arts; and thus the vengeance-fraught little ship, carried along by the billowy floods of learning, could at last reach the goal, it had so long been aiming at.
"Wherefore now do you think, that I have expounded all this?" asked he finally.
"Not to expound the elements of the liberal arts, but to expose the folly of an ignorant man, who preferred pecking away at grammatical blunders, to deriving true wisdom, from his guest; for though his inward nature may for ever be shut out from the realms of art, he might at least have caught an outward reflection of my light. But he was swelling with insolent pride, so that he preferred to pass for a sage amongst his fellow-monks; like to that frog which sitting in the mire, thought to rival the bull in greatness. Ah, never has the pitiful creature, stood on the heights of science, hearing God's own voice speak to him. Born in the wilderness and grown up amidst silly, prattling people, his soul has remained on the level of the beasts of the field. Unwilling to dwell in the active life of this world, and incapable of a life of inward contemplation, he has been marked by the enemy of mankind, as his own. Willingly I would exhort you to try what could be done for him, with the aid of healing medicine, but I sadly fear that his disease is too deeply rooted.
"'For on a hardened skin, even sneeze-wort will prove, unavailing,'says Persius.
"And now, after having read all this, please to judge ye venerable brothers, whether I am the man to have merited such treatment and ridicule, from the hands of a fool. I deliver both him and myself into your hands, for before the judgment of the just, the fool falls back into his own nothingness.Finis!"
"... Praised be the holy Amandus!" said Gunzo once more, when the last word of his work had been written down. The old serpent would certainly have swelled with joy, if it could have watched him, in the full glory of his likeness to deity, when he added the last dot. 'And God looked on all that he had made, and behold, it was good.' And Gunzo?--He did the same.
Then he walked up to his metal looking-glass, and gazing for a long time at his own reflection, as if it were of the greatest importance for him, to study the countenance of the man who had annihilated the Ekkehard of St. Gall, he finally made a deep bow to himself.
The bell in the refectory had for some time been announcing the supper-hour. Psalm and grace were finished, and the brotherhood was already seated before the steaming millet-porridge, when Gunzo at last came in with a radiant countenance. The dean, silently pointed to a remote corner away from his customary seat; for he, who missed the regular hour too often, was, as a punishment, separated from the others, and his wine was given to the poor. But without the least murmur, Gunzo sat down, and drank his Belgian pump-water,--for his book was lying finished in his cell, and that made up to him for everything.
When the meal was over, he invited some of his friends to come up to his cell, in as mysterious a way, as if they were about to dig for some hidden treasure, and when they were all assembled, he read his work out to them. The monastery of St. Gallus, with its libraries, schools and learned teachers, was far too famous in all Christendom for the disciples of St. Amandus not to listen to the whizzing of Gunzo's arrows, with a secret joy. Cleverness and a blameless life, are often far more offensive to the world, than sin and wickedness. Therefore they nodded their hoary heads approvingly, as Gunzo read out the choice bits.
"It would have been well before this, to have taught these Helvetian bears a lesson!" said one. "Insolence joined to roughness does not deserve any gentler treatment."
Gunzo continued. "Bene, optime, aristotelicissime!" murmured the assembled monks, when he had ended.
"May the dish please you, Brother Akhar!" exclaimed another. "Belgian spice, to flavour the Helvetian cheese!"
The brother head-cook, embracing Gunzo, actually wept with joy. Nothing so learned, profound and beautiful, had ever gone out into the world before, from the cloister of St. Amandus. Only one of the brothers was standing immovable near the wall.
"Well?" said Gunzo interrogatively.
"And where is charity?" softly asked the brother, and after these few words he relapsed again into silence The reproach struck home.
"Thou art right, Hucbald," said he. "This want shall be supplied. Charity requires us to pray for our enemies. Therefore I will add a prayer for the poor fool, at the end. That will have a good appearance, and impress all tender minds favourably. Ay?"
But the brother did not reply. It had become very late, and they all left the cell now on tip-toe. Gunzo tried to retain him who had spoken of charity, as he cared a good deal for his opinion; but Hucbald turned away and followed the others.
"Matthew twenty-three, verse twenty-five," he murmured when his foot had crossed the threshold. Nobody heard it.
Slumber that night, however, obstinately refused to close the eyes of Gunzo the learned. So he read the production of his industry over and over again. He soon knew in what place every word stood, and yet he could not withdraw his eyes from the well-known lines. At last he seized his pen, saying: "A more pious ending,--so be it!" He reflected a while, pacing up and down his cell with slow measured steps. "It shall be done in hexametres, for who has ever before, retaliated an insult received, in so worthy a manner?"
So he sat down and wrote. He wished to write a prayer for his enemy,--but then nobody can act contrary to his nature. Once more he glanced over the written pages. They were really too good! Then he penned the supplement. When the cock was announcing the dawn of day, this also was finished. Two dozen and a half of rattling monks' verses. That his thoughts, from the prayer for his antagonist, by degrees, diverged on himself and his glorious work, was but a natural transition for a man gifted with so much self-esteem.
With complacent unction, he wrote down the five last stanzas.
"Go then into the world, my book; and wherever, thou findest,Shameful, slanderous tongues, which my glorious life are defiling,Crush them without remorse, and humble them with thy just censure,Until thy author one day, will enter the kingdom of Heaven,Such as is promised to him, who has not buried his talents."
"Go then into the world, my book; and wherever, thou findest,Shameful, slanderous tongues, which my glorious life are defiling,Crush them without remorse, and humble them with thy just censure,Until thy author one day, will enter the kingdom of Heaven,Such as is promised to him, who has not buried his talents."
The parchment was rough, and resistant, so that he had to press the goose-quill, in order to make it receive the letters.
On the next day, Gunzo packed up his epistle in a tin box, and this again in a linen bag. A bondsman of the monastery, who had slain his brother, had taken a vow of a pilgrimage to the grave of the twelve Saints, with his right arm chained to his right hip; and to pray there until some heavenly sign of grace, was shown to him. His way led up the Rhine. So, Gunzo put the tin case round his neck, and a few weeks later, it was delivered safe and sound into the hands of the gate-keeper at Reichenau. Gunzo well knew his friends there. Therefore he had dedicated the libel to them.
Moengal the old parish-priest had also some business to transact in the monastery, on that day. In the stranger's room sat the Belgian pilgrim. They had given him some fish-soup, which he managed to eat with much difficulty; his chains clinking whenever he lifted his arm.
"Thou hadst better go home again, and marry the widow of the man thou hast slain," said Moengal. "That would be a far better expiation, than to make a fool's journey into the wide world, with your rattling chains."
The pilgrim shook his head silently, as if he thought that such chains might prove heavier still, than any which the blacksmith could forge.
Moengal asked to be announced to the Abbot. "He is very busy with some book he is reading," was the answer. Nevertheless he was ushered into his presence.
"Sit down, parish-priest," graciously said the Abbot. "I know that you are rather fond of salty and peppery things. Here's something for you."
He read out to him Gunzo's libel which had just arrived. The old man listened attentively, but his eyebrows contracted and his nostrils expanded during the lecture.
When he had come to the description of Ekkehard's curly hair and fine shoes, the Abbot was nearly convulsed with laughter, but Moengal sat there, rigid and serious, and on his forehead a frown had gathered, like clouds before a thunderstorm.
"Well I reckon, that his pride will be well whipped out of him!" said the Abbot. "Sublime! really sublime! And an abundance of knowledge. That will strike home, and cannot be answered."
"But it can though," grimly said the parish-priest.
"And in what way?" eagerly asked the Abbot.
Moengal made a gesture of evil import. "A good stick from a holly-bush, or a brave hazel-wand, is all that's wanted, and then to go down the Rhine, until there is but an arm's length left between the Suabian wood and the Italian writer's back. And then." ... He concluded his speech figuratively.
"You are somewhat rude, parish-priest, and have no appreciation of learning," said the Abbot. "To be sure--such a treatise as that can only be written by a refined intellect. Respect, I say!"
"Fine learning that, indeed!" exclaimed Moengal, who had worked himself into a downright rage. "'Puffed-up lips, and a bad and wicked heart, are like an earthen pot, covered with tinsel,' says Solomon. Learned? Why, the wood in my parish is as learned as that, for it also repeats, what you call out to it, and that is at least a melodious echo. We know these Belgian peacocks, which are to be found though, also in other parts. Their feathers are stolen, and their singing, in spite of tail and rainbow-colours behind, is hoarse, and will always be hoarse; no matter what airs the creatures may give themselves. Before my great recovery, I also believed that it was singing, instead of croaking, when a fellow puffed up his cheeks with grammar and dialectics, but now: 'Farewell,Marcianus Capella,' say we now at Radolfszell!"
"I believe that it is time for you to think of going home, as the clouds are fast gathering over Constance," said the Abbot.
Then the parish-priest found out, that he had not chosen a suitable individual, for expounding his views on healthy opinions and science to. So he took leave.
"For the matter of that, thou mightst have remained as well in thy monastery at Benchor on the emerald isle, thou Irish wooden-head," thought Abbot Wazmann, whilst taking leave with evident coolness.
"Rudimann!" he called out through the passage, when Moengal was gone. Rudimann, instantly made his appearance.
"I suppose you remember the last vintage-time," began the Abbot, "as well as a blow given to you by a certain milk-sop, to whom a fanciful Duchess, is now about to give certain lands?"
"I remember the blow," replied Rudimann with a bashful smile, like a maiden who is questioned about her lover.
"That blow has been returned by someone, with a strong and unrelenting hand. You may be satisfied. Read this," handing Gunzo's parchment to him.
"By your leave," said Rudimann, stepping up to the window. He had tasted many a noble wine in his life, during the time that he had occupied his present post of cellarer, but even on the day, when the bishop of Cremona had sent him some jugs of sparkling brown Asti, his countenance had not shone so radiantly, as it did now.
"What a precious gift from above, is extensive knowledge, and a fine style," exclaimed he. "The brother Ekkehard is done for. He cannot dare to show his face again."
"Tis not quite so far yet," said the Abbot. "But then, that which is not, may yet be in the future. The learned brother Gunzo is helping us. His epistle must not be allowed to rot unread. So you can have some copies taken; better six than three. That fine young gentleman must be driven away from the Hohentwiel. I am not overfond of yellow-beaked birds, who pretend to sing better than their elders. Some cold water, poured on his tonsure, will benefit him. We will send a note to our brother in St. Gall, urging him to command his return. How is it with the list of his sins?"
Rudimann slowly raised his left hand, and began to count on his fingers. "Shall I recount them? First he has disturbed the peace of our monastery, during the vintage, by, ..."
"Stop," said the Abbot, "that is past and done away with. All that, which happened before the battle with the Huns, is buried and forgotten. That is a law which the Burgundians made, and which we will adhere to, also."
"Then without the help of my fingers," said the cellarer. "The custodian of St. Gallus has become subject to haughtiness and insolence, since the day on which he left his monastery. Without moving his lips to frame a greeting, he passes by, brothers, whose age and intellect, ought to claim his reverence. Then, he presumed to preach the sermon, on the holy day when we beat the Huns; although such an important and solemn office, ought to have been performed by one of the Abbots. Further, he presumed to baptize a heathenish prisoner; although such a baptism should have been superintended by the regular priest of the parish and not by one, who ought to attend at the gate of the monastery of St. Gallus.
"What may still arise out of the constant intercourse of the forward youth with his noble mistress, He Who searcheth all hearts, alone can tell! Already at the wedding-feast of that baptized heathen, it was observed that he did not shun meetings with that beauteous dame, in solitary places; and that he heaved frequent sighs, like a shot buck. Likewise it has been remarked with heartfelt sorrow, that a Greek maiden, as fickle and unstable as a will-o'-the-wisp, is flickering about him; so that, that which is left undone by the mistress, may be finished by her hand-maiden, of whose orthodoxy even, one is not fully assured. Now, a frivolous woman is bitterer than death, according to Scripture. She is a bait of the evil one, and her heart is a net, and only he who pleases God, can escape her wiles."
It was a most becoming and just thing, for Rudimann, the protector of the uppermaid Kerhildis, to be so well versed, in the words of the Preacher.
"Enough," said the Abbot. "Chapter twenty-nine, treating of the calling back of absent brothers. It will do, and I have a sort of presentiment, that the fickle lady will soon flutter about on her rock, like an old swallow, whose nestling has been taken away. Goodbye sweetheart!... and Saspach will yet become ours!"
"Amen!" murmured Rudimann.
Early on a cool pleasant summer day, Ekkehard walked out of the castle gate, into the breezy morning air. He had passed a sleepless night, during which he had paced up and down in his chamber. The Duchess had called up a host of wild thoughts in his heart, and in his head there was a buzzing and humming, as if a covey of wild ducks were flying about there. He shunned Dame Hadwig's presence, and yet longed every moment that he was away, to be near her. The old happy ingenuousness had taken wing. His ways had become absent and variable; in short, the time which has never been spared yet to mortal man, and which Godfrey of Strassburg describes: "as an everpresent pain, in a continual state of bliss," had come for him.
Before the night had quite set in, a thunderstorm was raging outside. He had opened his little window, and enjoyed the fierce sheets of lightning, flashing through the gathering darkness, and every now and then, lighting up the shores of the lake; and he had laughed when night had triumphed again, and the thunders were reverberating between the hills.
Now it was a fine sunny morning. Glistening dew-drops hung on the grass, and here and there, an unmelted hailstone, was lying in the shade. Quiet and peace were now reigning over hill and vale, but the ears of the blasted cornfields, hung down their broken heads, for the hail-storm had blighted the fair promising harvest. From the rocky hillsides, mud-coloured little brooklets, were running down into the valley.
As yet, nothing was stirring in the fields, for it was only just daybreak. In the distance, on the hilly ground which extends in undulating lines at the back of the Hohentwiel, a man was striding along. It was the Hunnic convert. He carried willow branches and all sorts of slings, and was just setting out on his work to wage war on the field-mice. As he walked along, he whistled merrily on a lime-tree leaf, and looked the image of a happy bridegroom; for in the arms of the tall Friderun, he had found new happiness.
"How are you?" mildly said Ekkehard when he passed by with an humble salutation. The Hun pointed up to the blue sky: "as if I were in heaven!" said he, gaily spinning round on one of his wooden shoes. Ekkehard turned his steps back again; but for a long while the whistling of the mouse-catcher, could still be heard interrupting the silence around. At the foot of the hill there lay a piece of weatherbeaten rock, over which an elder-tree spread its boughs, richly laden with luxuriant white blossoms. Ekkehard sat down on it, and after dreamily gazing into the distance for some time, he drew out from under his habit, a neatly bound little book, and began to read. It was neither a breviary nor the Psalter. It was called, "The song of Solomon," and it was not good for him to read it. To be sure, they had once taught him, that the lily-scented song, expressed the longing for the church, the true bride of the soul, and in his younger days he had studied it, undisturbed by the gazelle eyes, and the dovelike cheeks and slender as the palm-tree waist of the Sulamite woman, but now!--now he read it with other eyes. A soft dreaminess came over him.
"Who is it, that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?" He looked up to the towers of the Hohentwiel, which were glittering in the first rays of the morning sun, and there found the answer.
And again he read: "I sleep but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved, that knocketh saying: open to me my sister, my love, my dove, for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of night."--A stirring breeze shook down some of the white blossoms on the little book. Ekkehard did not shake them off. He had bent down his head, and was sitting there immovable.
Meanwhile, Cappan had cheerfully begun his daily labours. There was a field down in the plain, on the border of the lands belonging to the Hohentwiel, on which the field-mice had erected their headquarters. The hamsters were carrying off plenty of provisions for the winter, and the moles were digging their passages in the gravelly soil. To that spot, Cappan had received orders to betake himself. Like a statesman in a rebellious province, he was to restore order, and cleanse the land of all obnoxious subjects. The floods of the late thunderstorm, had laid open the hidden refuges. He dug them up gently, and slew many a field-mouse before it was aware of it. Then, he carefully prepared his various slings and traps, putting also here and there some poisonous baits, which he had concocted out of the thorn-apple and belladonna; and all the while that he was thus intent on these his murderous designs, he continued to whistle merrily; little knowing what terrible clouds were gathering over his head.
The land on which he was exercising his art, bordered on some grounds, that belonged to the monastery of Reichenau. There, where a forest of stately old oaks stretched their tops into the air, some straw-thatched roofs might be seen. These were the roofs of the Schlangenhof, which, together with many acres of wood and fields, belonged to the monastery. A pious widow had left it to St. Pirmin, in order to secure eternal bliss for her soul. They had let it to a farmer, who was rather a rough man with a thick knotty skull, full of hard, stubborn thoughts. He had many men and maid-servants, as well as horses and cattle, and was altogether a thriving man, for he took good care that the copper-brown snakes, which infested both court and stable, were left unmolested. Their dish of milk in the stable-corner, was never allowed to remain empty, and in consequence they had got quite tame, and never harmed anybody. "These snakes are the blessing of the whole farm," the old man would often repeat.
For the last two days, however, the convent-farmer had not enjoyed one single quiet hour; for the frequent thunderstorms made him very anxious about his crops. When three of them had passed by, without doing any damage, he had a horse put to a cart, on which was placed a sack of last year's rye, and with that he drove over to the deacon of Singen. He, on seeing the cart approaching, grinned so as to show his big grinders, for he knew his customer well enough. His living was scanty, but out of the folly of mankind, he yet made enough to butter his bread with.
The convent-farmer had taken the sack of corn down from the cart, and said: "Master Otfried, you have taken good care of me, and have prayed away the thunderstorms from my fields. Don't forget me, if the thunder should come on again."
And the deacon replied: "I think you must have seen me standing under the church-door, with my face turned towards the Schlangenhof, sprinkling the holy water three times towards the tempest, in the shape of the holy cross; besides saying the verse of the three holy nails. That, drove away clouds and hailstones fast enough, I can tell you! Your rye, convent-farmer, would make excellent bread, if a trifle of barley were added to it."
Then, the convent-farmer returned home, and was just thinking of filling a smaller sack with barley, as an additional, well-deserved present, for his advocate with Heaven, when again some black and threatening clouds became visible. When they were looming dark and terrible, over the oak-wood, a whitish-grey smaller cloud hurried up after them. It had five points like to the fingers of a hand, and swelled and shot forth sheets of lightning, and soon a hail-storm, far worse than any previous ones, came down. The convent-farmer had at first stood confidently under his porch, thinking that the deacon of Singen would again drive it away, but when the hailstones began pelting his cornfields, causing the ears to fall like soldiers in a battle, he struck his clenched fist on the oaken table, calling out: "may that cursed liar at Singen be damned."
In the height of despair, at the deacon's prayers having failed, he now tried an old traditional remedy of the Hegau. Tearing down some branches from the nearest oak-tree, he plucked off the leaves, and putting these into his venerable old wedding-coat, he hung that up, on the mighty oak-tree which overspread his house. But the merciless hailstones continued to beat down the corn, in spite of wedding-coat and oak-leaves. Like a statue, the convent-farmer stood there, with his eyes riveted on the bundle in the air, hoping that the wind which would drive the thunderstorm away, would come out of it,--but it came not! Then, biting his lips and with contracted eye-brows, he walked back into the house. Almost heart-broken with grief, he threw himself into a chair before the table, and for some time he sat there without uttering a word. When at last he spoke, it was to pronounce an awful curse. This, with the convent-farmer was already a change for the better.
The head-servant, timidly ventured to approach him now. He was of gigantic stature, but before his master, he stood as timid as a child.
"If I only knew the witch!" exclaimed the farmer. "The weather-witch! the cursed old hag! She should not have shaken out her skirts over the Schlangenhof in vain.... May her tongue be withered in her mouth!"
"Need it have been a witch?" said the head-servant. "Since the woman of the wood has been driven away from the Hohenkrähen, no other has dared to show her face here."
"Hold thy tongue, until thou art asked!" fiercely growled the convent-farmer.
The man remained standing there, well knowing that his turn would come. After some time the old man gruffly said: "What dost thou know?"
"I know, what I know," replied the other, with a sly expression.
Again there ensued a pause. The convent-farmer looked out of the window. The harvest was destroyed. He turned round.
"Speak," cried he.
"Did you notice that strange grey cloud, sailing past the dark ones?" said the man. "What else can it have been, but the cloud-ship? Somebody has sold our corn to the owners of that ship." ...
The convent-farmer crossed himself, as if he wanted to prevent his saying more.
"I have heard it said by my grandmother," continued the head-servant. "She has often heard people speak about it in Alsace, when the thunderstorms came from over the Odilienberg. The ship comes from a land that is called Magonia, and is always white, and sails on black clouds. Fasolt and Mermuth sit in it, and throw down the hailstones on the fields, if the great weather-wizard has given them the power to do so. Then, they lift up our corn into their ship, and sail back to Magonia, where they are well paid for it. To be on good terms with the cloud-sailors, is more profitable than the reading of masses. We shall have nothing but the husks this year."
The convent-farmer became thoughtful. Then he suddenly seized the head-servant by the collar, and shaking him violently, cried: "who?" But the man in reply put one of his fingers up to his lips. It had become late.
At the same early hour when Cappan had met Ekkehard, the convent-farmer, accompanied by the head-servant, was walking through the fields, to look at the damage. Neither of them said a word. The loss in crops was considerable, but they did not fail to observe that the land on the other side had suffered far less. It was as if the oak-wood had been the boundary line, for the hail-storm.
On the neighbouring lands, Cappan was performing his duties. He had finished setting his traps, and thought he would allow himself some rest. So, he drew from his pocket a piece of bread and some bacon, which was as soft and white as the newly fallen snow, and looked so tempting that he could not help thinking of his spouse with deep gratitude, for having provided him with such food. Further, he thought about many another thing which had occurred since their wedding, and he cast a longing look up to the larks, as if he wanted them to fly over to the Hohenstoffeln, to carry some tender messages there, and again he felt so lightsome and happy, that he cut a mighty caper into the air.
His slender spouse not being present just then, he thought of giving himself a treat, by lying down full length on the ground, whilst he ate his food; for at home, he had until then always been obliged to sit down, little as he liked it.
Just at that moment he remembered that Friderun, to call down a blessing on his work, had taught him to pronounce some words, which were to exorcise the vermin; exhorting him very earnestly not to forget saying them. His breakfast would never have tasted well if he had not obeyed this injunction.
On the border of the field, there was a stone, on which a half moon was engraven, the sign of Dame Hadwig's ownership. He stepped up to it, and pulling off his wooden shoe from his right foot, he stood barefoot and stretched out his arms towards the wood. The convent-farmer and his head-servant, who were walking between the trees, stopped at this sight, but Cappan did not observe them and pronounced the words which Friderun had taught him.
"Aius sanctus, cardia cardiani!Mouse and she-mouse, hamster and mole, I bid ye all to go away from the fields and meads below; and may fever, plague and death follow you where'er ye go!Afrias, aestrias, palamiasit!"
Hidden behind some bulky oak-trees, the convent-farmer and his companion, had watched the exorcism. They now approached stealthily. "Afrias, aestrias, palamiasit!" said Cappan for the second time, when a blow from behind, hit him right on the neck, so that he fell down. Strange, unintelligible words entered his ears, and before he had recovered from his surprise, four fists were lustily belabouring his back, like flails on a barn-floor.
"Out with it, thou corn-murderer!" shrieked the convent-farmer. "What has the Schlangenhof ever done thee, thou weather-maker, mice-catcher, rake-hell?!"
Cappan gave no answer. The poor fellow was perfectly bewildered, but this only angered the old man the more.
"Look into his eyes, whether they are bleared, and if things are reflected wrongly in them," called he out to the head-servant. The latter obeyed, but he was honest.
"'Tis not in the eyes," said he.
"Then lift up his arm!"
He tore off the upper garment from the prostrate man, and examined his arms very carefully; for he who held communion with evil spirits, bore some mark on his body. But they found nothing whatever on the poor wretch, except some scars of old wounds. This fact had almost restored him to favour in their eyes, for folks were then quick and changeable in their passions, as an historian of those days informs us. Just at that moment however, the servant-man's eyes fell on the ground, where a large stag-beetle was crawling along. His wings shone with violet-blackish hue, and the reddish horns were proudly raised, like a stag's antlers. He had witnessed the ill-treatment which Cappan had received, and was going to continue his way, not having liked it.
The head-servant started back, affrightedly.
"Thedonnerguggi," exclaimed he.
"The thunder-beetle!" cried the convent-farmer likewise, and now Cappan was lost. That he, together with the beetle, had made the storm, was now beyond all doubt, for the stag-beetle, was then believed to attract thunder and lightning.
"Confess and repent, thou heathenish dog!" said the farmer, searching for his knife, but here an idea struck him and he continued, "he shall meet with his punishment on the grave of his brothers. To revenge them, he has brought down the hail-storm."
The servant had meanwhile smashed the stag-beetle between two large pebbles, which he afterwards buried in the ground. Together, they now laid hands on Cappan, dragging him over the field, to the Hunnic mound, and there bound fast his hands and feet. This being done, the man ran over to the Schlangenhof, to call his fellow-servants. Wild and blood-thirsty they came. Some of them had danced at Cappan's wedding, but this did not in the least prevent their going out now to stone him.
Cappan began to collect his scattered senses. What he was accused of, he could not guess, but he understood well enough, that his life was in great danger. Therefore he now uttered a shriek which rent the air, wild and complaining, like the death-cry of a wounded horse, and awakened Ekkehard from his reverie, under the elder-tree. He recognized the voice of his god-child and looked down. A second time, Cappan's cry rose up to him, and then Ekkehard forgot Solomon's song, and hurried down the valley. He came in the nick of time. They had placed Cappan, with his back towards the piece of rock covering the mound, and were forming a semi-circle around him. The convent-farmer explained how he had caught him in the very act of weather-making, and then they unanimously agreed, that he should be stoned to death.
Into this grim assembly, rushed Ekkehard. The ecclesiastical men of those days were less deluded than they were a few hundred years later, when thousands lost their lives by fire, on account of similar accusations; and the state signed the death-warrant; and the church gave its blessing thereto. Ekkehard, though convinced of the existence of witchcraft, had himself once copied the treatise of the pious Bishop Agobard, written to disprove the nonsensical popular superstition of weather-making. Indignant wrath gave eloquence to his speech.
"What are ye about, ye deluded men, that ye intend to judge, when ye ought to pray that ye may not be judged yourselves! If the man has sinned, then wait till the new moon, when the parish-priest at Radolfszell will be holding court against all malefactors. There, let seven sworn men, accuse him of the forbidden art, according to the laws of the emperor and of the church."
But the men of the Schlangenhof would not heed his words. A threatening murmur ran through their ranks.
Then, Ekkehard thought of striking another chord in their rough minds.
"And do ye really believe, ye sons of the land of saints, of the Suabian ground, which the Lord has been pleased to look upon with gracious eyes, that such a poor, miserable Hun could have the power, to command the clouds? Do ye think that the clouds would obey him? That a brave Hegau flash of lightning would not rather have split his head, to punish him, for having dared to meddle with it?"
This last reason had almost convinced the native pride of the men, but the convent-farmer cried out: "The thunder-beetle! the thunder-beetle, we have seen it with our eyes, crawling around his feet!"
Then the cry of "stone him to death!" was again raised. A first stone was hurled at the unfortunate Hun, making his blood flow. Upon this, Ekkehard, bravely threw himself on his god-son, shielding him with his own body.
This had its effect.
The men of the Schlangenhof looked at each other dumfounded, until one of them turned round to go away, and the others following his example, the convent-farmer was soon left standing there all alone.
"You are taking the part of the land-destroyer!" he cried angrily, but on Ekkehard not giving an answer, he likewise dropped the stone from his hand, and went away grumbling.
Poor Cappan found himself in a most pitiable condition; for on a back which has been under the treatment of Allemannian peasants' fists, "no grass will grow again so easily," as the expression is in those parts.
The stone had caused a wound on the head which was bleeding profusely. Ekkehard, first washed his head with some rain-water, made the sign of the cross over it, to stop the bleeding, and then dressed the wound as well as he could. He thought of the parable of the Good Samaritan. The wounded man looked gratefully up at him. Slowly Ekkehard led him up to the castle, and he had to persuade him, before he would take his arm. The foot that had been wounded in the late battle, also began hurting him again, so that he limped on, with suppressed groans.
On the Hohentwiel, their arrival was the cause of great and general excitement, for everybody liked the Hun. The Duchess descended into the courtyard, bestowing a friendly nod on Ekkehard, on account of his kindliness and compassion. The trespass of the monastery's vassal against her subject, raised her just resentment.
"That shall not be forgotten," said she. "Be comforted my poor mouse-catcher, for they shall pay thee damages for thy wounded pate, that will equal a dowry. And for the broken peace of the realm, we shall decree the highest possible fine. A few pounds of silver, shall not be sufficient. These convent-people, grow to be as insolent as their masters!"
But the most indignant of all was Master Spazzo the chamberlain.
"Did I for this reason withhold my sword from his head, when he lay wounded before me, that those clodhoppers of the Schlangenhof, should pave it with their field-stones? And what, if he was our enemy before? Now he is baptized and I am his god-father, and bound to take care of the welfare of his soul as well as of his body. Be content, godchild!" cried he, rattling his sword on the stone flags, "for as soon as thy scratch has been mended, I shall accompany thee on thy first walk, and then we will settle accounts with the convent-farmer. Hail and thunder, that we will! So, as to make the chips fly off his head! With those farmers, things cannot go on any longer in that way. These fellows carry shields and arms like noblemen, and instead of hunting like peasants, they keep dogs, broken in to fly at boars and bears; and blow on their bugles, as if they were the lords of the creation. Whenever a man carries his head higher than the rest, one may be sure that he is a farmer!"
"Where was the trespass committed?" asked the Duchess.
"They dragged him from the boundary stone with the raised half-moon, to the Hunnic mound," said Ekkehard.
"Consequently the deed has been done, even on our own ground and territory," indignantly exclaimed the Duchess. "That is too much! Master Spazzo you must to horse!"
"We must to horse!" echoed the chamberlain fiercely.
"And demand even to-day that the Abbot of Reichenau, shall pay us both damages and fine, for the peace which has been broken; as well as give us all possible satisfaction. Our sovereign rights shall not be trampled upon, by monastic insolence!"
"Shall not be trampled upon, by monastic insolence!" repeated Master Spazzo, still fiercer than before.
Seldom had he entered on a mission which was more to his taste. "We will mount, Sir Abbot!" cried he, going up to his room to make the necessary preparations.
His green velvet waistcoat and gold-bordered chamberlain's mantle, he quietly left in his wardrobe, choosing instead, an old and shabby grey suit. After having donned this, he put on the large greaves, which he had worn on the day of the battle. Fastening on them the biggest spurs he possessed, he tramped up and down a few times, to try their effect. Finally he stuck three waving feathers in his steel-cap, and hung his sword over his shoulders. Thus arrayed, he came down into the courtyard.
"Do look at me, most lovely maiden Praxedis," said he to the Greek, "and tell me what sort of expression, my face wears now?" He had pushed the steel cap towards his left ear, and haughtily turned his head over his right shoulder.
"A most insolent one, indeed, Sir Chamberlain!" was the reply.
"Then 'tis all right," said Master Spazzo, mounting his steed. A moment later he cantered out by the castle-gate, so that he made the sparks fly about; having the pleasant conviction, that this time, insolence was his bounden duty.
On the way, he practised the part he was going to act. The storm had thrown down a fir-tree, to the roots of which the torn-up earth was still clinging. Its mighty branches blocked up the way.
"Out of the way, ecclesiastical blockhead!" called out Master Spazzo to the fir-tree, and when it did not move, he drew his sword.
"Forwards Falada," spurring his steed, so that it jumped over the tree, in one flying leap. Whilst the animal was performing this feat, Master Spazzo gave a good cut at the branches, so as to make the twigs fly about.
In less than an hour and a half, he had reached the cloister-gate. The small strip of land, which at low tide, linked the shore with the island, was now above water, thus affording a passage. A serving brother opened the door for him. It was about dinner-time. The imbecile Heribald, quickly came out of the convent-garden, to satisfy his curiosity with regard to the strange horseman. He pressed up close to the horse, when Master Spazzo dismounted. The watch-dog, furiously barking, dragged at his chain, to get at the steed, so that the animal reared back, and Master Spazzo almost came to grief. When he had safely alighted, he seized his scabbard, and dealt Heribald a blow over the back.
"It is not meant for you," cried he, stroking his beard, "it is for the watch-dog. Pass it on!"
Heribald stood there, perfectly aghast, and rubbed his shoulder.
"Holy Pirmin!" wailed he.
"To-day there is no holy Pirmin whatever," said Master Spazzo in a most decisive tone.
Then Heribald laughed, as if he knew his customer now.
"Heigho, gracious lord, the Huns have also been here, and there was nobody but Heribald to receive them; but they did not speak to him so wickedly as that."
"The Huns, are no ducal chamberlains, fool!" Master Spazzo replied haughtily.
In Heribald's weak mind, the idea began to dawn, that the Huns might not be the worst guests, on German ground. He held his tongue, however, and returned to the garden, where he plucked some sage leaves and rubbed his back with them.
Master Spazzo strode over the cloister-yard to the gate, which, through the cross-passage, led into the interior. He had assumed his heaviest tread. The bell that announced dinner was just ringing. One of the brothers now came quickly across the yard. Him, Master Spazzo now seized by his garment.
"Call down the Abbot!" said he. The monk looked at him in mute astonishment; then, casting a side look at the chamberlain's worn hunting-suit, he replied: "It is the hour for our mid-day meal. If you are invited, which however seems rather doubtful to me,"--with another ironical look, at Master Spazzo's outward man, ... but he was spared the end of his sentence, for the chamberlain dealt the hungry brother such a genuine cuff, that he was sent reeling into the yard again, like a well thrown shuttle-cock. The mid-day sun shone on the smooth tonsure of the prostrate man.
The Abbot had already been informed of the violent assault, which the convent-farmer had made on one of the Duchess's subjects. He now heard the noise in the courtyard and on stepping up to the window, he was just in time to see the pious brother Ivo, sent flying out into the yard. "Happy is he, who knows the secret causes of things," says Virgil, and Abbot Wazmann was in that happy condition. He had seen Master Spazzo's feathers nodding over at him with a threatening aspect, from out the sombre cross-passage.
"Call down the Abbot!" was again shouted up from the courtyard, so that the panes of the little cell-windows vibrated.
Meanwhile, the soup was getting cold in the refectory, so that the assembled brotherhood at last fell to, without waiting any longer for the Abbot.
Abbot Wazmann had sent for Rudimann the cellarer. "All this annoyance, we surely owe to that green-beak of St. Gall! Oh, Gunzo, Gunzo! No one ought to wish ill to his neighbour, but still I cannot help revolving in my mind, whether our strong-handed yeomen, had not done better to hurl their stones at that hypocrite Ekkehard, rather than at the Hunnic wizard!"
A monk now shyly entered the Abbot's room.
"You are desired to come down," said he in low accents. "There is somebody down stairs, who shouts and commands, like a mighty man."
Then the Abbot said to Rudimann the cellarer: "It must be very bad weather, with the Duchess. I know the chamberlain, and that he is a perfect weather-cock. Whenever his mistress wears a smile round her haughty lips, then he laughs with his whole face, and when clouds have gathered on her forehead, then a downright thunderstorm will explode with him" ...
"... and the lightning precedes the thunder," added Rudimann. Heavy steps were now heard approaching.
"There's no time to be lost," said the Abbot. "Set out as quickly as you can, Cellarer, and express our deep regret to the Duchess. Take some silver coins out of the convent-box, as smart-money for the wounded man, and say that we will have prayers offered for his recovery. Get along! you are his god-father and a clever man."
"It will be rather a difficult task," said Rudimann. "She is sure to be downright exasperated."
"Take her some present," said the Abbot. "Children and women are easily bribed."
"What sort of a present?" Rudimann was about to ask, when the door was thrown open, and Master Spazzo came in. His face wore the right expression.
"By the life of my Duchess!!" exclaimed he. "Has the Abbot of this rats' nest, poured lead into his ears, or has the gout got hold of his feet, that he does not come down to receive his visitors?"
"We are taken by surprise," said the Abbot. "Let me welcome you now." He lifted his right forefinger to give him the blessing.
"I need no such welcome!" returned Master Spazzo. "The Devil is the patron-saint of this day. We have been insulted, grossly insulted! We exact a fine; two hundred pounds of silver at the least. Out with it! Murder and rebellion! The sovereign rights shall not be trampled upon, by monastic insolence! We are an ambassador!"
He rattled his spurs on the floor.
"Excuse me," said the Abbot, "we could not recognize the ambassador's garb in your grey jacket."
"By the camel's-hair coat, of St. John the Baptist!" flared up Master Spazzo, "and if I were to come to you in my shirt, the garment would be good enough, to appear as a herald, before your black cowls!"
He put on his helmet again, from which the feathers seemed to nod triumphantly. "Pay me at once, so that I can go on again. The air is bad here, very bad indeed." ...
"Allow me," said the Abbot, "but we never permit a guest to depart in anger from our island. You are sharp and urgent, because you have not yet dined. Don't disdain a meal, such as the monastery can offer, and let us talk of business afterwards."
That a fellow in return for his rudeness, is kindly pressed to stay to dinner, made some impression on the chamberlain's mind. He took off his helmet again. "The sovereign rights shall not be trampled upon by monastic insolence," muttered he once more; but the Abbot pointed over to the open cloister-kitchen. The fair-haired kitchen-boy was turning the spit before the fire and smacking his lips, for a lovely smell of the roast meat had entered his nostrils just then. Some covered dishes, calling up pleasant anticipations were standing in the background; whilst a monk, bearing a huge wine-jug, was just coming up from the cellar. The aspect was too tempting, to resist any longer. So Master Spazzo laid aside his frown, and accepted the invitation.
When he had arrived at the third dish, his insulting speeches became more scarce, and when the red wine of Meersburg, was sparkling in the beaker, they ceased entirely. The red wine of Meersburg was good.
Meanwhile Rudimann rode out of the convent-gate. The fisherman of Ermatingen, had caught a gigantic salmon, which lay, fresh and glittering, in the vaults below. This fish had been selected by Rudimann, as a suitable present for appeasing the Duchess. Before he set out, however, he had still something to do in the copying room of the monastery. A lay-brother was to accompany him, with the huge fish, packed up in straw, lying before him on the saddle. Master Spazzo had ridden over in the haughtiest fashion, whereas Rudimann now assumed his most humble expression. He spoke shyly, and in low accents, when he asked for the Duchess. "She is in the garden," was the reply. "And my pious confrater Ekkehard?" asked the cellarer.
"He has accompanied the wounded Cappan, to his cottage on the Hohenstoffeln, where he is nursing him, so that he is not expected home before night."
"This I am truly sorry to hear," said Rudimann, with an evil expression of spite hovering about his lips. He then had the salmon unpacked, and put on the granite table in the middle of the courtyard. The tall lime-tree threw its cool shade over the glistening scales of the royal fish, and it was as if its large eye had still retained the power of sight, and were longingly looking away from the green branches, to the blue waves of its native element.
The fish measured above six feet in length, and Praxedis screamed outright, when its straw covers were taken off. "He does not come home before night-fall," muttered Rudimann, breaking off a strong branch from the tree, a piece of which he put between the jaws of the fish, so that it remained with wide open mouth. With some of the leaves, he carefully lined the inside, and then diving down into his breast-pocket, he drew out thence the parchment leaves of Gunzo's libel. Rolling them first neatly up, he then stuck them between the jaws of the salmon.
With unfeigned astonishment, Praxedis had been watching the strange proceeding.
The Duchess was now seen approaching them. Humbly, Rudimann walked forwards to meet her, and imploring her indulgence for the convent's bondsman, he told her how sorry the Abbot was; spoke with appreciation of the wounded man; expressed his doubts about the possibility of weather-making; and in fact spoke on the whole with tolerable success.
"And may an unworthy present show you at least the good will of your ever faithful Reichenau," concluded he, stepping aside, so that the salmon could shine out in full glory. The Duchess smiled, half reconciled already; and now her eye caught the parchment roll. "And that?" said she enquiringly.
"The latest production of literature!" said Rudimann. With a deep bow he then took leave, and remounting his mule, hastily set out again on his way home.
The red wine of Meersburg was good, and Master Spazzo was not accustomed to treat drinking as a thing that could be done quickly. He persevered before the wine-jug, like a general besieging a city; and sitting immovably on his bench, drank like a man, silently, but much, leaving all loud demonstrations to younger persons.
"The red wine is the most sensible institution of the monastery. Have you got more of it in the cellar?" he said to the Abbot when the first jug was emptied. His wanting to drink more, was meant as a politeness, and a sign of reconciliation. So the second jug was brought up.
"Without injuring our sovereign rights!" said he grimly, when he knocked his beaker against that of the Abbot. "Certainly, certainly," replied the latter with a queer side-look.
The fifth hour of the evening had thus come, and the sounds of the bell were floating through the monastery.
"Excuse me," said the Abbot, "we must now go to vespers, will you come with us?"
"I prefer waiting for you here," replied Master Spazzo, casting a look into the long neck of the wine-jug. It contained ample provision, for at least another hour. So he let the monks sing their vespers, and drank on, all alone.
Again an hour had elapsed, when he tried to remember for what reason he had ridden over to the monastery, but the fact was that he could not recollect it any more, very clearly. The Abbot came back now.
"How did you entertain yourself?" asked he.
"Very well," said Master Spazzo. The jug was empty.
"I do not know ..." began the Abbot.
"Certainly!" said Master Spazzo, nodding his head. Then the third jug was brought.
Meanwhile Rudimann had returned home from his expedition. The sun was far inclining to the west; the sky was all a-glow and faint purple gleams of light were falling through the narrow windows, on the carousing party.
When Master Spazzo again drank bumpers with the Abbot, the red wine glistened like fiery gold in the cup, and he saw an aureole of light, flickering round the Abbot's head. He tried to collect his scattered senses. "By the life of Hadwig," said he solemnly, "who are you?"
The Abbot did not understand him.
"What did you say?" asked he. Then Master Spazzo recognised the voice. "Ah so," cried he, striking the oak table with his fist. "The sovereign rights shall not be trampled upon, by monastic insolence!"
"Certainly not," rejoined the Abbot.
Then the chamberlain felt a spasmodic pain in the forehead, which he knew very well, and which he used to call "the waker." The waker came only when he was sitting behind the wine-jug, and whenever it announced itself, it was a sure signal, that in half an hour later, the tongue would be paralysed, and the speech refuse to come. If "the waker" came for the second time, then the feet also were threatened with temporary paralysis. So he arose.
"These cowl-bearing monks shall not have the satisfaction of witnessing, how their wine shuts up the mouth of a ducal chamberlain," thought he. He stood quite erect on his feet.
"Stop," said the Abbot, "we must not forget the parting draught!"
Then the fourth jug was brought. It is true that Master Spazzo had arisen, but then between rising and going, a good many things may yet happen. He drank again, but when he wanted to put down his beaker, he placed it in the empty air, so that it fell down and broke to pieces. At this, Master Spazzo got furious; whilst many a thought was crossing in, and confusing his muddled brains.
"Where have you got him?" cried he to the Abbot.
"Whom?"
"The convent-farmer! Out with him, the coarse peasant, who tried to murder my god-child!" He threateningly advanced a few paces towards the Abbot, making only one false step.
"He is at the Schlangenhof," smilingly said the Abbot, "and I willingly deliver him up to you; only you must be pleased to fetch him from there, yourself."
"Murder and rebellion! We will fetch him!" roared Master Spazzo, rattling his sword, as he strode towards the door. "We will drag him out of his bed even, the rascal! And when we have got him, by the knapsack of St. Gallus, if he ... then ... I can tell you ..."
This speech was never ended, as his tongue stood still now, like the sun at Joshuah's bidding, during the battle with the Amorites.
He stretched out his hand for the Abbot's cup, and drank that out. But his speech did not return. A sweet placid smile now settled on the chamberlain's lips. He stepped up to the Abbot to embrace him.
"Friend and brother! much beloved old wine-jug! what, if I were to dig out one of thine eyes?" he tried to say with stammering tongue, but he could only utter some unintelligible sounds. He pressed the Abbot vehemently to his bosom, treading on his feet at the same time, with his heavy boots.
Abbot Wazmann had already been deliberating within himself, whether he should not offer a bed for the night to his exhausted guest, but the embrace and the pain in his toes, changed his hospitable designs, and he took care, that the chamberlain set out on his return.
His horse stood ready saddled in the cloister-yard, where the weak-minded Heribald was sneaking about. He had fetched himself a large piece of tinder from the kitchen, which he intended to light and then to stick in the nostrils of the chamberlain's horse; thus to revenge himself for the blow which he had received. Master Spazzo, having scraped together the last remains of his dignity, now made his appearance. A servant with a burning torch, lighted him on his way. The Abbot had taken leave of him, at the upper-gate.
Master Spazzo then bestrode his faithful steed Falada, but he was no sooner mounted, than he glided down again on the other side. Heribald who was near, hurried up to catch him in his arms, and as he did so, his bristly beard, grazed the chamberlain's forehead.