"For this reason, the Emperor's daughter could not obtain the desired glimpse of the hero; though she wanted it ever so much.
"When she had returned home, she said to Herlindis: 'Woe is me! I shall neither have rest now by night nor by day, until my eyes have beheld that valiant man. He, who would bring me the hero to my chamber, might win a handsome reward.' And Herlindis replied laughingly: 'That message I will faithfully undertake. I will go to the house where he lives.'
"Then, the sly maiden put on her most becoming garments, and went out to Sir Dietrich, who received her with due courtesy. And she sat down beside him, and whispered into his ear: 'My mistress, the Emperor's daughter, sends you many gracious greetings. She has taken a great fancy to you, and wishes you to pay her a visit.'
"But Dietrich replied: 'woman, thou art not doing right. I have entered many a bower, in days gone by; why dost thou mock the homeless wanderer? At the Emperor's court there are noble dukes and princes enough, and thy mistress never dreamt of what thou art now saying!'
"And when Herlindis insisted on the truth of her words, Sir Dietrich said: 'There are so many spies about here, that he, who wishes to keep his reputation unstained, must be very careful. Constantinus would banish me, if he found out that I had been to see his daughter. Please to tell her this; though I should much like to serve her.'
"Herlindis, was rising to go, when the King ordered his goldsmiths to make a pair of golden shoes, and another pair of silver, and he gave her one of each pair, as well as a mantle and twelve bracelets; for he was a gallant man and knew that a princess's waiting-woman, entrusted with such delicate matters, ought to be much honoured." ...
Praxedis here stopped a moment, for Master Spazzo who had begun drawing a number of big-nosed faces on the sand, with the scabbard of his sword, now hummed audibly, but as he did not say anything she continued.
"And Herlindis returned home full of glee, and spoke thus to her mistress: 'the valiant knight holds his honour dear. He values the Emperor's good will too much to comply with your wishes. But look here, what he gave me! The shoes, the bracelets and the mantle! How glad I am that I went there; for surely I shall never behold a handsomer knight in this wide world. God pardon me, but I stared at him as if he were an angel!'
"'Alas!' said the princess, 'am I never to be made happy? Then, at least thou must give me the shoes which the noble hero gave to thee. I will give thee their weight in gold.'
"Thus, the bargain was concluded. First she put on the golden shoe, but when she took up the silver one, she perceived that it was made for the same foot. 'Woe is me!' cried the beautiful maiden. 'Thou hast made a mistake, and I shall never get it on. Thou must go once more to Sir Dietrich, and beg him to give thee the other shoe, and also that he should come himself.'
"'That will delight all scandal-loving tongues,' laughed Herlindis, 'but what does it matter? I will go!'--and she drew up her skirts almost to her knees, and walked over the wet courtyard to Sir Dietrich, and the noble hero saw her coming, and he well knew what she wanted. Still, he feigned not to see her.
"But Herlindis accosted him thus: 'You see that I had to come again. A mistake has been made; so my mistress bids me ask you, to give me the other shoe, and to accompany me yourself.'
"'Verily I should much like to go,' said he, 'but the Emperor's chamberlains would betray me.'
"'Never fear that,' said Herlindis, 'for they are all out, practising the throwing of the spear. Take two servant-men with you, and follow me softly, and nobody will miss you during the tournament.'
"After this, the faithful maiden wanted to go, but the hero detained her, saying: 'I will first inquire after the shoes.' Then Asprian, who was outside called out: 'What matters an old shoe? We have made many thousands of them, and the servants are now wearing them. I will look for the right one.' So he brought it, and Dietrich again gave a mantle and twelve bracelets to the waiting-woman.
"So she went on before, and imparted the desired news to her mistress.
"Sir Dietrich meanwhile, caused a great uproar to be made in the courtyard at Hippodrom. Widolt came out first with his iron bar, and raved like a madman. Asprian cut a summersault in the air, and Eveningred threw an immense stone of several hundred weight a long distance, and then sprang after it, so that none of the spies thought of watching Sir Dietrich, as he steadily walked across the yard.
"At the window stood the princess, looking out and her heart beat fast, when she saw him approach. Her chamber-door was then opened to him and she addressed him thus: 'Welcome, my noble lord! Great pleasure does it give me, to see you. Now you can put the beautiful shoes on my feet yourself.'
"'Gladly I will do so,' said the hero, sitting down at her feet; and his manners were graceful and elegant. So she put her foot on his knee, and the foot was dainty and the shoes fitted well. So Sir Dietrich put them on for her.
"'Please to tell me, noble and gracious lady,' the artful man now began, 'thou hast probably been wooed by many a man; now confess, which of them has pleased thee most?'
"Then the Emperor's daughter replied with a serious mien. 'Sir, by the purity of my soul, and by my holy baptism! If all the heroes of the world were brought together, not one of them would be found worthy to be called thy equal. Thou art a virtuous and noble man,--yet if I could choose freely, I would take a hero, of whom I cannot help thinking day and night. The messengers whom he has sent to woo me, have been thrown into a deep, dreary dungeon. His name is Rother; he lives across the seas, and if he will not become my own, I shall remain a maid all the days of my life!'
"'Heigho!' said Dietrich, 'if thou wilt wed with Rother, I will bring him hither quickly. We have lived pleasantly together as friends, and he has ever been kind and good to me, although he drove me away from his lands.'
"Then the princess replied: 'How canst thou love a man, who has banished thee?--Ah, now I see it all! Thou art a messenger, sent by King Rother. And now speak out forthwith, and hide nothing from me, for what thou wilt now tell me, I will keep secret until the day of judgment.'
"When she had thus spoken, the hero looked steadily at her and said! 'Then I will put my trust in God and leave my fate in thy hands. Know then, that thy feet are resting on King Rother's knees!'
"Great was the terror of the gentle maiden. Hastily drawing away her feet, she cried: 'Woe is me! how could I be so ill-bred and thoughtless, as to place my foot on thy lap! If God had really sent thee hither, I should be deeply thankful. But how can I trust thee? If thou couldst prove to me the truth of what thou hast told me, I would gladly quit my father's realms with thee, even to-day. There is not a man living whom I would take but thee, if thou wert really King Rother,--but for the present this must remain undone.'
"'How could I prove it better, than through my imprisoned friends?' said the King. 'If they could see me, thou wouldst soon be convinced that I have spoken truth.'
"'Then I will beg my father to let them out,' said the princess. 'But who will prevent their escape?'
"'I will look to that,' replied he.
"Then, the Emperor's daughter kissed the hero, and he left her chamber in all honour, and returned to his house, his heart full of deep joy.
"At the first dawn of the next day, the princess took a staff and put on a black mourning dress, with the pilgrim's badge on her shoulders, as if she wanted to leave the land, and her face was very pale and sad. Thus, she knocked at the Emperor's door and artfully said: 'My dear father! Though still alive, I am yet suffering great torments. I feel very miserable, and who will comfort me? In my dreams, the imprisoned messengers of King Rother have appeared to me, and they look pale and worn, and leave me no peace. So I must go to escape from them, if you will not at least let me comfort the miserable men, with good food, wine and a bath. Let them come out of their prison, if it were only for three days.'
"Then the Emperor made answer. 'This will I grant thee, if thou wilt find me security, that they return to their prison on the third day.'
"At the usual hour for supper, the so-called Sir Dietrich with his knights also came to the Emperor's hall, and when the repast was over, and everyone was washing his hands, the princess walked round the tables, as if she wanted to choose someone among the number of rich dukes and noble lords, who would stand bail. When she came to Dietrich she said: 'Now it is time that thou shouldst help me. Stand bail for thy messengers with thy life.'
"Then he replied: 'I will be surety, most beautiful maiden.' And he pledged his head to the Emperor, who sent out some men to open the prison-gate. The wretched messengers were by this time reduced to a state of great weakness. When the doors were opened, the clear daylight shone in, and dazzled the unfortunate men, who had grown unused to it. Then they took the twelve counts, and made them go out. Each one was followed by a knight. They could scarcely walk. Lupolt their leader, again walked at their head. He wore a torn apron round his loins; his beard was long and shaggy, and his body was covered with sores. Sir Dietrich was overwhelmed with sadness, and he turned his head away, that they might not recognize him; and he could scarcely repress the rising tears, which the pitiful sight called forth. He then had them all brought to his house, where everything was got ready for their reception, and the counts said to each other, 'who was he, who stood aside? He is surely befriending us.' And they, with their hearts full of old grief, laughed with a new joy; but they did not recognize him.
"On the following day, the Emperor's daughter invited the sorely-tried men to court, presented them with good, new garments, ordered a warm bath to be prepared for them, and had a table spread for a sumptuous repast. As soon as the noblemen were seated around it, forgetting their woe for a moment, Sir Dietrich took his harp, and hiding himself behind a curtain, touched the strings and played one of the melodies which he had before played on the seashore.
"Lupolt, who had raised the cup to his lips, let it fall, so that the wine was all spilt over the table; and another who was cutting bread, dropped his knife, and all listened wondering. Louder and clearer their king's song was heard, and then Lupolt jumped across the table, and all the counts and knights followed him, as if something of their old strength had suddenly returned, and they tore down the curtain, and kissed the harper, and knelt before him, and the joy was indescribable.
"Then, the princess knew that he was really and truly King Rother of Vikingland, and she uttered a loud cry of delight, which attracted her Father Constantine thitherwards; and whether he liked it or not, he could do nothing but join the lover's hands. The messengers never went back to their dungeon; Rother was no longer called Dietrich, and he kissed his bride and took her home over the seas, and became a very happy man, holding his wife in great honour. And whenever they sat lovingly together, they would say: 'Thanks be to God, to knightly valour, and prudent waiting-woman's cunning.'
"That is the story of King Rother!"
Praxedis had spoken a long while.
"We are well satisfied," said the Duchess, "and whether smith Weland will carry off the prize, after King Rother's history has been told, seems to me rather doubtful."
Master Spazzo was not annoyed at this.
"The waiting-women at Constantinople, seem to have eaten wisdom with spoons," said he. "But althoughImay be conquered, the last tale has not yet been told." He glanced over at Ekkehard who was sitting lost in thought. He had not heard much of King Rother. All the time that Praxedis had been speaking, his eyes had been fixed on the Duchess's headband with the rose in it.
"To say the truth," continued Master Spazzo, "I hardly believe the story. Some years ago, when I was sitting in the bishop's courtyard at Constance, drinking a jug of wine, a Greek pedlar, trafficking with relics, came that way. His name was Daniel, and he had many holy bones and church-ornaments, and the like articles, amongst which there was also an ancient sword, with jewel-set hilt, which he tried to foist on me, saying, that it was the sword of King Rother, and if the gold crowns had not then been as scanty with me, as the hairs on the pedlar's pate, I should have bought it. The man told me that Sir Rother had fought for the Emperor's daughter with that very same sword, with King Ymelot of Babylon, but of golden shoes, waiting-women or harp-playing, he knew nothing whatever."
"I dare say that many things might still be found in this world, which you know nothing about," lightly said Praxedis.
The evening had set in. The moon had risen, shedding her pale light over hills and plain. Strong fragrant perfumes filled the air, and the fireflies were getting ready for flight, in the bushes and crevices of the rocks round about.
A servant came down with some lights, which, being surrounded by linen, saturated with oil, burned brightly and steadily. The air was mild and pleasant.
Burkhard the cloister-pupil, was still sitting contentedly on his stool; his hands folded as in devotion.
"What does our young guest think?" asked the Duchess.
"I would gladly give my best Latin book, if I could have seen the giant Asprian, dashing the lion against the wall," replied he.
"Thou shouldst become a knight, and go out to conquer giants and dragons thyself," jestingly said the Duchess.
This, however, did not convince him. "But we have to fight the Devil himself," said he, "that is better still."
Dame Hadwig was not yet inclined to go indoors. Breaking a twig from the maple-tree into two unequal pieces, she stepped up to Ekkehard. He started up confusedly.
"Well," said the Duchess, "you must draw. Either you or I!"
"Either you or I," vacantly repeated Ekkehard. He drew out the shorter piece. It slipped out of his hand, whilst he silently resumed his seat.
"Ekkehard!" sharply exclaimed the Duchess.
He looked up.
"You are to relate something!"
"I am to relate something," murmured he, passing his right hand over his forehead. It was burning and inside it, was a storm.
"Ah yes--relate something. Who is going to play the lute for me?"
He stood up and gazed out into the moonlit night, whilst the others looked at him in mute wonder, and then he began in a strange, hollow voice:
"'Tis a short story. There once was a light, which shone brightly, and it shone down from a hill, and it was more radiant and glorious than the rainbow. And it wore a rose under the headband ..."
"A rose under the headband?" muttered Master Spazzo, shaking his head.
"... And there was once a dusky moth," continued Ekkehard, still in the same tone, "which flew up to the hill, and which knew that it must perish if it flew into the light.--And it did fly in all the same, and the light burned the dark moth, so that it became mere ashes,--and never flew any more. Amen!"
Dame Hadwig sprang up, indignantly.
"Is that the whole of your story?" asked she.
"'Tis the whole of it," replied he with unchanged voice.
"It is time, for us to go in," proudly said the Duchess. "The cool night-air produces fever."
She walked past Ekkehard with a disdainful look. Burkhard again carried her train, whilst Ekkehard stood there immovably.
The chamberlain patted, him on the shoulder. "The dark moth was a poor fool, Master Chaplain!" said he compassionately.
A sudden gust of wind, here put out the lights. "It was a monk," said Ekkehard indifferently, "sleep well!"
Ekkehard had remained sitting in the bower for a long time after the others had gone away, and when at last he also rose, he rushed out into the darkness. He did not know whither his feet were carrying him. In the morning he found himself on the top of the Hohenkrähen, which was silent and deserted since the woman of the wood had left it. The remains of the burnt hut, formed now but a confused mass. On the place where the sitting-room had once been, was still the Roman stone with the Mithras. Grass and ferns were growing on it, and a slow-worm was stealthily creeping up on the old weatherbeaten idol.
Ekkehard burst into a wild laugh. "The chapel of St. Hadwig!" he cried, striking his breast, with his clenched hand. "Thus, it must be!" He upset the old Roman stone, and then mounted the rock on the top of the hill. There, he threw himself down, pressing his forehead against the cool ground, which had once been touched by Dame Hadwig's foot. Thus, he remained for a long time. When the scorching rays of the mid-day sun were falling vertically down, he still lay there, and--slept.
Towards the evening he came back to the Hohentwiel, looking hot and excited, and having an unsteady gait. Blades of grass clung to the woolen texture of his habit.
The inhabitants of the castle, shyly stepped out of his way, as if ill-luck had set her seal on his forehead. In other times they used to come towards him, to entreat his blessing.
The Duchess had noticed his absence, without making any inquiries about him. He went up to his tower, and seized a parchment, as if he would read. It happened to be Gunzo's libel. "Willingly I would ask you, to try the effect of healing medicine, but I fear that his illness is too deeply rooted," was what he read. He laughed. The arched ceiling threw back an echo, which made him jump up, as if he wanted to find out who had laughed at him. Then, he stepped up to the window, and looked down into the depth below. It was deep, far deeper than he had imagined, and overcome by a sudden giddiness, he started back.
His eye now fell on the small phial which the old Thieto had given him. With a painful recollection he thought of the blind old man! "Serving women is an evil thing for him, who wishes to remain in the paths of virtue," he had said when Ekkehard took leave.
He tore the seal off and poured the water from the Jordan over his head and eyes. It was too late. Whole floods of holy water will not extinguish the inward fire, unless one dives down, never to rise again to the surface. Yet a momentary feeling of quiet came over him.
"I will pray to be delivered from temptation," said he. He threw himself on his knees, but after a while he fancied that he heard the pigeons swarming round his head, as they did on the day when he first entered his chamber. Only they had mocking faces now, and had a contemptuous look about their beaks.
He got up, and slowly descended the winding staircase to the castle-chapel. The altar, which had often witnessed his former earnest devotions, was a safer place for him, he thought. The chapel was as it had always been, dark and silent. Six ponderous pillars with square capitals adorned with leaf-work, supported the vault. A faint streak of daylight fell in through the narrow window. The depth of the niche in which the altar was placed, was but faintly illuminated; the golden background of the mosaic picture of the Redeemer alone shone with a soft glitter. Greek artists had transplanted the forms of their church ornaments to the German rock. In white flowing garments, with a golden red aureole round his head, the Saviour's lean figure stood there, with the fingers of the right hand extended in the act of blessing.
Ekkehard knelt before the altar-steps; his forehead resting on the cold stone flags. Thus he remained, wrapt in prayer. "Oh thou, that hast taken the sins and sufferings of the whole world on thyself, send out one ray of thy grace on me, unworthy object." He looked up with a fixed stare as if he expected the earnest figure to step down, and hold out his hand to him.
"I am here at thy feet, like Peter, surrounded by tempest, and the waves will not bear me up! Save me, oh Lord! save me as thou didst him, when thou walkedst over the raging billows, extending thy hand to him and saying 'oh, thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt?'"
But no such sign was given him.
Ekkehard's brain was giving way.
A rustling, like that of a woman's garments, now became audible, but Ekkehard did not hear it.
Dame Hadwig had come down, impelled by a strange impulse. Since her feelings for the monk had undergone a change, the image of her late husband recurred oftener to her inward mind. This was but natural. As the one receded into the background, the other must come forward again. The latter reading of Virgil had also its share in this, as there had been said so much about the memory of Sichæus.
The following day was the anniversary of Sir Burkhard's death. With his lance and shield by his side, the old duke lay buried in the chapel below. His tomb was covered by a rough stone-slab. A sarcophagus of grey sandstone stood near it, resting on small clumsy pillars, with ionic headpieces, which again rested on quaint ugly stone-animals. This stone coffin, Dame Hadwig had had made for herself. Every year, on the anniversary of the Duke's death, she had it carried up, filled with corn and fruits, which were distributed amongst the poor,--the means for living coming from the resting-place of the dead. It was an old pious custom.
To-day she intended to pray on her husband's grave. The reigning twilight concealed Ekkehard's kneeling figure. She did not see him.
Suddenly she started up from her kneeling pasture. A laugh, soft yet piercing struck her ear. She knew the voice well. Ekkehard had risen and recited the following words of the psalms:
"Hide me under the shadow of thy wings. From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. Arise, o Lord, disappoint them, cast them down." ...
He said it in an ominous tone. It was no more the voice of prayer.
Dame Hadwig bent down once more, beside the sarcophagus, on which she would gladly have placed another, to hide her from Ekkehard's view. She had no longer any wish to be alone with him. Her heart beat calmly now.
He went to the door, about to go, when suddenly he looked back once more. The everlasting lamp was softly rocking to and fro, over Dame Hadwig's head. Ekkehard's eye pierced the twilight this time, and with one bound,--quicker than that which in later days St. Bernard had made, when the madonna had beckoned to him, in the cathedral at Speier--he stood before the Duchess. He cast a long and penetrating look at her. Rising from the ground, and seizing the edge of the stone sarcophagus with her right hand, she confronted him, whilst the everlasting lamp over her head, was still gently swinging to and fro, on its silken cord.
"Thrice blessed are the dead, for one prays for them," said Ekkehard, interrupting the silence.
Dame Hadwig made no reply.
"Will you pray for me also, when I am dead?" continued he. "Oh no, you must not pray for me! ... but you must let a goblet be made out of my skull, and when you take another monk away from the monastery of St. Gallus, you must offer him the welcome draught in it,--and give him my greeting!--You can put your own lips to it also; it will not crack. But you must then wear the head-band with the rose in it." ...
"Ekkehard!" said the Duchess, "you are trespassing!"
He put his right hand up to his forehead.
"Ah yes!" said he in a soft, mournful voice, "ah yes!... the Rhine is trespassing also. They have stopped its course with gigantic rocks, but it has gnawed them all through, and is now rushing and roaring onwards; carrying everything before it, in its glorious newly won liberty!... And God must be trespassing also methinks; for he has allowed the Rhine to be, and the Hohentwiel and the Duchess of Suabia, and the tonsure on my head."
The Duchess began to shiver. Such an outbreak of long repressed feeling, she had not expected. But, it was too late,--her heart remained untouched.
"You are ill," she said.
"Ill?" asked he, "it is merely a requital. More than a year ago, at Whitsuntide, when there was as yet no Hohentwiel for me, I carried the coffin of St. Gallus in solemn procession out of the cloister, and a woman threw herself on the ground before me. 'Get up,' cried I, but she remained prostrate in the dust. 'Walk over me with thy relic, oh priest, so that I may recover,' cried she, and my foot stepped over her. That woman suffered from the heartache. Now 'tis reversed." ...
Tears interrupted his voice. He could not go on. Then, he threw himself at Dame Hadwig's feet, clasping the hem of her garment. His whole frame was convulsed with trembling.
Dame Hadwig was touched; touched against her will; as if from the hem of her garment, a feeling of unutterable woe thrilled her, up to her very heart.
"Get up," said she, "and try to think of other things. You still owe us a story. You will soon have conquered this weakness."
Then Ekkehard laughed through his tears.
"A story!" cried he, "yes, a story! But it must not be told. Come, let us act the story! From the height of yonder tower one can see so far into the distance, and so deep into the valley below,--so sweet and deep, and tempting. What right has the ducal castle to hold us back? Nobody who wishes to get down into the depth below, need count more than three, ... and we should flutter and glide softly into the arms of Death, awaiting us down there. Then, I should be no longer a monk, and I might wind my arms around you,--and he who sleeps here in the ground below," striking Sir Burkhard's tombstone with his clenched hand; "shall not prevent me! If he, the old man should come, I would not let you go, and we will float up to the tower again, and sit where we sat before, and we will read the Æneïd to the end, and you must wear the rose under your head-band, as if nothing whatever had happened. The gate we will keep well locked against the Duke, and we will laugh at all evil backbiting tongues, and folks will say, when sitting at their fire-places of a winter's evening: 'that is a pretty tale of the faithful Ekkehard, who slew the Emperor Ermenrich for hanging the Harlungen brothers, and who afterwards sat for many hundred years before Dame Venus's mountain, with his white staff in his hands, and he meant to sit there until the day of judgment, to warn off all pilgrims coming to the mountain. But at last he grew tired of this, and ran away and became a monk at St. Gall, and he fell down an abyss and was killed, and he is sitting now beside a proud, pale woman, reading Virgil to her. And at midnight may be heard the words: 'If thou commandest, oh Queen, to renew the unspeakable sorrow.' 'And then she must kiss him, whether she will or not, for death makes up for the pleasures denied us in life.'"
He had uttered all this with a wild, wandering look in his face; and now his voice failed with low weeping. Dame Hadwig had stood immovably all this time. It was as if a gleam of pity were lighting up her cold eye, as she now bent down her head towards him.
"Ekkehard," said she, "you must not speak of death. This is madness. We both live, you and I!"
He did not stir. Then she lightly laid her hand on his burning forehead. This touch sent a wild thrill through his brains. He sprang up.
"You are right!" cried he. "We both live, you and I!"
A dizzy darkness clouded his eyes as he stepped forwards, and winding his arms round her proud form, he fiercely pressed her to his bosom, his kiss burning on her lip. Her resisting words died away, unheard.
Raising her high up towards the altar, as if she were an offering he was about to make, he cried out to the dark and solemn looking picture, "why dost thou hold out thy gold glittering fingers so quietly, instead of blessing us?"
The Duchess had started like a wounded deer. One moment, and all the passion of her hurt pride lent her strength, to push the frenzied man back, and to free herself at least partly from his embrace. He had still got one arm round her waist, when the church-door was suddenly opened, and a flaring streak of daylight broke through the darkness,--they were no longer alone.
Rudimann, the cellarer from the Reichenau, stepped over the threshold, whilst other figures became visible in the background of the courtyard.
The Duchess had waxed pale with shame and anger. A tress of her long dark hair had become loosened and was streaming down her back.
"I beg your pardon," said the man from the Reichenau, with grinning politeness. "My eyes have beheld nothing."
Then, Dame Hadwig, ridding herself entirely from Ekkehard's hold, cried out: "Yes, I say!--yes youhaveseen a madman, who has forgotten himself and God, ... I should be sorry for your eyes if they had beheld nothing, for I would have had them torn out!"
It was with an indescribably cold hauteur, that she pronounced these words.
Then Rudimann began to understand the strange scene.
"I had forgotten," said he in a cutting tone, "that the man who stands there, is one of those, to whom wise men have applied the words of St. Hieronymus, when he says, that their manners were more befitting dandies and bridegrooms, than the elect of the Lord."
Ekkehard stood there, leaning against a pillar, with arms stretched out in the air, like Odysseus when he wanted to embrace the shadow of his mother. Rudimann's words roused him from his dreams.
"Who dares to come between her and me?" cried he threateningly. But Rudimann, patting him on the shoulder with an insolent familiarity, said: "Calm yourself, my good friend; we have only come to deliver a note into your hands. St. Gallus can no longer allow the wisest of all his disciples, to remain out in this shilly-shallying world. You are called home!--And don't forget the stick with which you are wont to illtreat your confraters, who like to snatch a kiss at vintage-time, you chaste censor," he added in a low whisper.
Ekkehard stepped back. Wild longings, the pain of separation, burning passionate love, and cutting, taunting words,--all these overwhelmed him at once. He made a few steps towards the Duchess; but the chapel was already filling. The Abbot of Reichenau had come himself to witness Ekkehard's departure.
"It will be a difficult task, to get him away," he had said to the cellarer. It was easy enough now. Monks and lay-brothers came in after him.
"Sacrilege," Rudimann called out to them. "He has laid his wanton hand on his mistress, even before the altar!"
Then Ekkehard could not restrain himself any longer. To have the most sacred secret of his heart profaned by insolent coarseness,--a pearl thrown before swine, ... he tore down the everlasting lamp, and swung the heavy vessel over his head. The light went out, and the moment after, a hollow groan was heard, and the cellarer lay with bleeding head on the stone-flags. The lamp lay beside him. Then there followed a fierce struggle, fighting, confusion ... all was coming to an end with Ekkehard. They had got the better of him, and tearing off the cord which served him as a belt, they tied his hands together.
There he stood, the handsome youthful figure; now the very picture of woe, resembling the broken-winged eagle. His eyes sent one mournful, troubled and appealing look at the Duchess,--who turned her head away.
"Do that which you think right," said she to the Abbot, sweeping proudly through the ranks of the lookers on.
A cloud of smoke met her outside, whilst the voices of loud, noisy merriment were heard from the castle-gate, outside of which a great bonfire, made up of resinous pine-branches, was burning. The servants of the castle danced around it, throwing flowers into the flames, and at that moment, Audifax putting his arm round the companion of his adventures, had jumped with her through the flames, uttering a loud cry of delight.
"Where does all this smoke come from?" asked Dame Hadwig of Praxedis, who was coming towards her.
"Solstice! Midsummer-day!" said the Greek maid.
It was a dreary, uncomfortable evening. The Duchess had locked herself up in her bed-room, refusing admittance to everyone.
Ekkehard meanwhile, had been dragged into a dungeon, by the order of the Abbot. In the same tower, in the airy upper storey of which was his chamber, there was a damp, dark vault, the floor of which had fragments of old tombstones lying about; they had been brought there, when the castle-chapel had been renovated. A bundle of straw had been thrown in for him, and a monk was sitting outside to guard the entrance.
Burkhard, the cloister-pupil, ran up and down, wailing and wringing his hands. He could not understand the fate which had befallen his uncle. The servants were all putting their heads together, eagerly whispering, and gossiping, as if the hundred-tongued Rumour had been sitting on the roof, spreading her falsehoods about. "He tried to murder the Duchess," said one. "He has practised the Devil's own arts, with that big book of his," said another. "To-day is St. John's day, when the Devil has no power, and so he could not help him."
At the well in the courtyard, Rudimann the cellarer was standing, letting the clear water flow over his head. Ekkehard had given him a sharp cut, out of which the dark blood was slowly trickling down into the water.
Whilst he was thus occupied, Praxedis came down, looking pale and depressed. She was the only being who had sincere, heartfelt pity, for the prisoner. On seeing the cellarer, she ran into the garden, tore up a blue cornflower with the roots, and then bringing it to him, said: "Take that into your right hand until it gets warm, and then the bleeding will cease. Or, shall I fetch you some linen to dress the wound?"
The cellarer shook his head.
"It will stop, in its own time," said he. '"Tis not the first time that I have been bled. Keep your cornflowers for yourself."
But Praxedis was anxious to conciliate Ekkehard's enemy. So she fetched some linen, upon which he allowed his wound to be dressed, without however, offering any thanks for it.
"Are you not going to let Ekkehard out to-day?" asked she.
"To-day?" Rudimann repeated sneeringly. "Do you feel inclined to weave a garland for the standard-bearer of Antichrist? the leading horse of Satan's car, whom you have petted and spoiled up here, as if he were the darling son Benjamin himself? Today indeed! When a month is passed you may put the question again, over there," pointing towards the Helvetian mountains.
Praxedis was frightened. "What then do you intend to do with him?"
"That which is right," replied Rudimann with an evil laugh. "Wantonness, deeds of violence, disobedience, haughtiness, sacrilege, blasphemy,--there are scarcely names enough for all his nefarious acts; but thank God, there are yet means for their expiation!" He made a motion with his hand like that of flogging.--"Ah yes, plenty of means of expiation, gentle mistress! We are going to write the catalogue of his sins on his back."
"Have pity," said Praxedis, "for he is a sick man."
"For that very reason we are going to cure him. When he has been tied to the pillar for an hour or so, and half a dozen rods have been flogged to pieces on his bleeding back, then all his spleen and his devilries will vanish!"
"For God's sake!" exclaimed the terrified girl.
"Calm yourself, for that is not all. A stray lamb must be delivered up to the fold it belongs to. There, he will find good shepherds who will look after the rest. Sheep-shearing sweet mistress, sheep-shearing! Then they will cut off the hair of his head, which will make it a deal cooler; and if you feel inclined to undertake a pilgrimage to St. Gall, in a year hence, you will see on Sundays and holidays, somebody standing barefooted before the church-door, and his head will be as bare as a cornfield after harvest-time, and the penitential garb will become him very nicely. What do you think? The Heathenish goings on with Virgil are at an end now."
"He is innocent!" said Praxedis.
"Oh," said the cellarer sneeringly, "we shall never harm innocence! He need only prove himself so by God's ordeal. If he takes the ring out of the kettle of boiling water with unburnt arm, our Abbot himself will give him the blessing; and I will say that it was all a delusion of the Devil's own making, when my eyes beheld the lady Duchess, clasped in the arms of his holiness, brother Ekkehard."
Praxedis wept. "Dear, venerable Master Rudimann!" said she imploringly.
Throwing an ugly leer at the Greek maiden, he said with pinched lips: "So it will be. I might however perhaps be induced to interfere on his behalf, if ..."
"If?" asked Praxedis eagerly.
"If you would be pleased to leave your chamber-door open to-night, so that I could communicate the result of my endeavours to you."
Playfully drawing the ample folds of his habit together, so that the outlines of his tightly laced waist became visible, he assumed a complacent and expectant attitude. Praxedis stepped back, and stamped her foot on the blue cornflower.
"You are a bad, wicked man!" she cried turning her back on him.
Rudimann, who knew how to interprete physiognomy, clearly saw from the twitching of Praxedis's eyelids, and the angry frown on her forehead, that her chamber-door would be locked, now and ever, against all the cellarers in Christendom.
She went away. "Have you still any commands?" asked she, once more looking back.
"Yes, thou Greek wasp! A jug of vinegar if you please. I want to lay my rods in it; the writing is easier then, and will not fade away so soon. I have as yet never had the good fortune to flog an interpreter of Virgil. Such a scholar verily deserves particular attention."
Burkhard, the cloister-pupil, was still sitting under the linden-tree, sobbing. Praxedis, in passing gave him a kiss, chiefly to spite the cellarer. She went up to the Duchess, intending to implore her compassion for Ekkehard on her knees; but the door remained locked against her. Dame Hadwig was deeply hurt. If the monks of the Reichenau had not come in upon them, she might have pardoned Ekkehard's frenzy; all the more as she herself had sowed the seeds of all this,--but now it had become a public scandal, which demanded punishment. The fear of gossiping tongues, does influence many an action.
The Abbot had sent her the letter from St. Gall. "St. Benedict's rules," so the letter said, "exacted not only the outward forms of a monastic life, but the self-denial of heart and soul, which forms the spirit of it!" Ekkehard was to return. From Gunzo's libel, some parts were quoted against him.
It was all perfectly indifferent to the Duchess. What his fate would be, if delivered into the hands of his antagonists, she knew quite well. Yet she was determined to do nothing for him. Praxedis knocked at her door a second time, but again it was not opened.
"Oh thou poor moth," said she sadly.
Ekkehard meanwhile, lay in his dungeon like one who had dreamt some wild dream. Four bare walls surrounded him; some faint gleams of light falling in from above. Now and then, he shivered as with cold. By degrees a melancholy smile of resignation settled on his lips, but this did not always remain there; bursts of anger, which made him clench his fists, interrupted it.
It is the same with the human mind as with the sea. Though the tempest may have blown over, the surge is yet stronger and more impetuous than before, and now and then, some mighty straggling wave dashes wildly up, frightening the seagulls away from the rocks.
But Ekkehard's heart was not yet broken. It was still too young for that. He began to reflect on his position. The view into the future was not very cheering. He well knew the rules of his order, and that the men from Reichenau were his enemies.
With big strides he paced up and down the narrow space. "Great God, whom we may invoke in the hour of affliction, how will this all end?"
He shut his eyes, and threw himself on the bundle of straw. Confused visions passed before his soul. Thus he saw with his inward eye, how they dragged him out in the early morning. The Abbot would be sitting on his high stone chair, with the hooked staff in his hand, in sign of his sitting in judgment, and then they would read out a long bill of complaints against him, ... all this in the same courtyard in which he had once sprung out of the sedan chair, with such a jubilant heart, and in which he had preached his sermon against the Huns, on that solemn Good-Friday,--and now they were all against him!
"What shall I do?" thought he. "With my hand on my heart, and my eyes raised towards Heaven, I shall say: 'Ekkehard is not guilty!' Then the judges will say, 'prove it!'" The big kettle is fetched; the fire lighted beneath, so that the water hisses and bubbles. Then, the Abbot draws off the golden ring from his finger. They push up the right sleeve of his habit, whilst solemn penitential psalms are chaunted around them. "I conjure thee, spirit of the water, that the Devil quit thee, and that thou serve the Lord, to make known the truth, like to the fiery furnace of the King of Babylon, when he had the three men thrown into it!"--Thus the Abbot would address the boiling water; and "dip in thy arm, and fetch the ring," says he to the accused....
"Just God, how will thy ordeal speak?" Wild doubts were besetting Ekkehard's soul. He believed in himself and his good cause, but his faith was less strong in the dreadful means, by which priestcraft and church-laws sought to arrive at God's decision.
In the library of his monastery there was a little book, bearing the title: "Against the inveterate error of the belief, that through fire, water or single combat, the truth of God's judgment could be revealed."
This book he had once read, and he remembered it well. It was to prove, that with these ordeals, which were an inheritance from the ancient Heathen time, it was as the excellent Godfrey of Strassburg has expressed it in later days, namely "that the best Christian, is as combustible as an old rag."
"And what, if no miracle is performed?"
His thoughts were inclined to dark and despondent doubts.--"With burnt arm, to be proclaimed guilty and to be flogged,--whilstsheperhaps would stand on the balcony looking on, as if it were being done to an entire stranger.--Oh Lord of Heaven and Earth send down Thy lightning!"
Yet hope does not entirely forsake even the most miserable. Then, he fancied again how through all this shame and misery, a piercing "stop!" was heard, and how she flew down with dishevelled locks, and in her rustling ducal mantle drove his tormentors away, as the Saviour drove out the usurers from the temple. And then, when all were gone, she presents him both her hand and lips to receive the kiss of reconciliation.--Long and ardently his phantasy dwelt on that beautiful possibility, which filled his heart with a soft consolation, and he spoke with the words of the Preacher: "As gold is purified from dross in the fire, so the heart of man is purified by sorrow."
He now heard a slight noise in the antichamber of his dungeon. A stone jug was put down. "You are to drink like a man," said a voice to the lay-brother on guard, "for on St. John's night, all sorts of unearthly visitors people the air and pass over our castle. So you must take care to strengthen your courage. There's another jug set ready, when this is finished."
It was Praxedis who had brought the wine. Ekkehard did not understand what she wanted. "Then she also is false," thought he. "God protect me!"
He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep. Some hours later he awoke. The wine had evidently been to the lay-brother's taste, for he was lustily singing a song in praise of the four goldsmiths, who had refused the making of heathenish idols at Rome; for which they had suffered martyrdom. With his heavy sandal-clad foot, he kept beating time on the stone-flags. Ekkehard heard that another jug of wine was brought in. The singing became always louder and more uproarious. Then he held a soliloquy; in which he spoke much about Italy and good fare, andSanta Agnese fuori i muri, until he suddenly ceased talking, whilst his snoring could be heard very plainly through the stone walls.
Everything was silent around. It was about midnight. Ekkehard lay in a half-slumbering state, when he heard the bolts of the door softly withdrawn. He remained lying where he was. A muffled figure came in, and a soft little hand was laid on the slumberer's forehead. He jumped up.
"Hush!" whispered Praxedis, for it was she.
When everybody had gone to rest, Praxedis had kept awake. "The bad cellarer shall not have the satisfaction of punishing our poor melancholy teacher," she had said to herself; and woman's cunning always finds some way and means to accomplish its schemes. Wrapping herself up in a grey cloak, she had stolen down on tip-toe. No special artifices were necessary, for the lay-brother was sleeping the sleep of the just. If it had been otherwise, the Greek would have frightened him by some ghost-trickery. That would have been her plan.
"You must fly!" said she to Ekkehard. "They mean to do their worst to you."
"I know it," replied he sadly.
"Come then."
He shook his head. "I prefer to submit and to suffer," said he.
"Don't be a fool," whispered Praxedis. "First you built your castle on the glittering rain-bow, and now that it has all tumbled down, you will allow them to illtreat you, into the bargain? As iftheyhad a right to drag you away and to flog you! And you will let them have the pleasure of witnessing your humiliation?... it would be a nice spectacle for them, to be sure! 'One does not see an honest man hung every day,' said a man to me once in Constantinople, when I asked him why he was running."
"Where should I go to?" asked Ekkehard.
"Neither to the Reichenau, nor to your monastery," said Praxedis. "There is still many a hiding-place left in this world." She was getting impatient, and seizing Ekkehard by the hand, she dragged him on. "Forwards!" whispered she. He allowed himself to be led.
They slunk past the sleeping watchman; and now they stood in the courtyard, where the fountain was splashing merrily. Ekkehard bent over the spout, and took a long draught of the cool water.
"All is over now," said he. "And now away!"
It was a stormy night. "As the bridge is drawn up, you cannot go out by the doorway;" said Praxedis, "but you can get down between the rocks, on the eastern side. Our shepherd-boy has tried that path before."
They entered the little garden. A gust of wind was rocking the branches of the maple-tree, to and fro. Ekkehard felt as if he were in a dream.
He mounted the battlement. Steep and rugged the grey rocks sloped into the valley, that now looked like a dark yawning abyss. Black clouds were chasing each other, along the dusky sky; weird uncouth shapes, resembling two bears pursuing a winged dragon. After a while, the fantastic forms united into one shapeless mass, which the wind drifted onwards towards the Bodensee, that glittered faintly in the distance. The whole landscape could only be seen in indistinct outlines.
"Blessings on your way," said Praxedis.
Ekkehard sat perfectly motionless on the battlement, still holding the Greek maiden's hand clasped in his. His lips could not express the feelings of gratitude which pervaded his whole being. Suddenly he felt her cheek pressed against his, and a trembling kiss imprinted on his forehead, followed by a pearly tear. Softly, Praxedis then drew away her hand.
"Don't forget," said she, "that you still owe us a story. May God lead your steps back again to this place, some day, so that we may hear it from your own lips."
Ekkehard now let himself down. Waving one last farewell with his hand, he soon disappeared from her sight. The stillness of night was interrupted by a loud clatter and booming amongst the cliffs. A piece of rock had become loosened, and fell noisily down into the valley. Another followed somewhat slower, and on this Ekkehard was sitting; guiding it as a rider does his horse. So he went down the sloping precipice, through the black night,--farewell!
She crossed herself, and went back, smiling through her tears. The lay-brother was still fast asleep. Whilst crossing the courtyard, Praxedis spied a basket filled with ashes, which she seized, and softly stealing back into Ekkehard's dungeon, she poured out its contents in the middle of the room, as if this were all that were left of the prisoner's earthly remains.
"Why dost thou snore so heavily, most reverend brother?" said she hurrying away.