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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Both, pleasure and happiness," exclaimed Ekkehard with beaming eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

The day before, Ekkehard had begun a description of the life of St.

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

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

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

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

Dame Hadwig was not greatly edified by this lecture. She let her eyes wander about in the hall in search of something to divert her thoughts.

Had the chamberlain, perhaps also disapproved of the choice of the chapter, or had the wine got into his head?--for suddenly he dashed at the book and closing it vehemently, so that the wooden covers clapped audibly, he held up his beaker, saying: "To the health of St.

Benedict." Ekkehard turned a reproachful look on him, but the younger members of the brotherhood, regarding the toast as serious, had already echoed it noisely. Here and there a hymn in praise of the holy man was begun; this time to the tune of a merry drinking song, and loud joyous voices rang through the hall.

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

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

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

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

The cloister-inmates did not seem inclined as yet to let this day's unusual liberty end here. In the Abbot's eyes there was a peculiarly soft and lenient expression, and the cellarer also never said "nay,"

when the brothers descended with their emptied wine-jugs into the vaults below.

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

But they had all heard it too often already how he had then in honest fight split open the scull of his antagonist,--so they eagerly requested him, to sing some favourite song, and on his giving an a.s.senting nod, some of them hurried out, presently to return with their instruments. One of them brought a lute, another a violin with one string only, a third a sort of dulcimer with metal pegs, which were played on with a tuning key, and a fourth a small ten-stringed harp.

This last curious-looking instrument was called a psalter, and its three-cornered shape was held to be a symbol of the Trinity.

When the instruments were tuned, they gave him his baton of ebony.

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

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

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

"Lovelier--than the singing of swans"--repeated the stranger in dreamy accents. Then he arose and quietly stole away. n.o.body in the monastery ever read what he wrote down in his journal that evening.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

Ekkehard's Departure.

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

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

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

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

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

"As a matter of course, you must give me the teacher with it,"

seriously replied Dame Hadwig.

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