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

by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

CHAPTER XVIII.

[Master Spazzo the Chamberlain's Mission.]

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.

"The donnerguggi," 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.

"Art thou here also, my wise King Solomon," stammered Master Spazzo. "Be my friend!" kissing him. Then Heribald threw away his cinder and placed his foot on it.

"Heigho, gracious Lord!" cried he. "May you come home safe and sound! You have come to us in a different manner from the Huns, and therefore your departure is different also. And yet, they too, understood how to drink wine."

Master Spazzo who had recovered his seat, pressed the steel-cap down on his head, and tightly grasped the reins. Something was still weighing on his mind, and made him struggle with his heavy tongue. At last he recovered some of his lost strength. He lifted himself in the stirrups, and his voice obeyed now.

"And the sovereign rights shall not be trampled upon, by monastic insolence!" cried he, so that his voice rang loudly through the dark and silent cloister-yard.

At the same time, Rudimann informed the Abbot of the success which his mission had had with the Duchess.

Master Spazzo rode away. To the servant who had accompanied him with the torch, he threw a gold ring, which induced the torch-bearer, to go on with him, over the narrow causeway through the lake.

He had safely reached the main land, and the cool night air was fanning his heated face. He burst out laughing. The reins he still held tightly in his right hand. The moon was shining brightly, whilst dark clouds were gathering round the peaks of the Helvetian mountains. Master Spazzo now entered the dark fir-wood. Loudly and clearly, at measured intervals, the cuckoo's voice was heard through the silence around.

Master Spazzo laughed again. Was it some pleasant recollection? or, longing hope for the future, which made him smile so sweetly?

He stopped his horse.

"When will the wedding be?" called he out in the direction where the cuckoo was sitting on its tree. He counted the calls, but the cuckoo this time was indefatigable. Master Spazzo had already come to number twelve, when his patience began to wane.

"Hold thy tongue, confounded bird!" cried he. But the cuckoo called out for the thirteenth time.

"Five-and-fourty years we have got already," angrily exclaimed Master Spazzo, "and thirteen more, would make it fifty-eight. That would be a nice time, indeed!"

The cuckoo sang out for the fourteenth time.

Here, another woke up, and also raised its voice; a third one followed, and now there began a chorus of emulating cuckoo-voices around the tipsy chamberlain, so that all counting became impossible.

Now his patience left him entirely.

"Miserable liars and breakers of marriages, that's what you are," cried he furiously. "Would that the devil would take you altogether!"

He spurred his horse on to a quicker pace. The wood became thicker, and heavy clouds were sailing towards the moon. It was intensely dark; the pine-trees had assumed a strange weird look, and everything was silent around. Willingly would Master Spazzo now have listened to the voice of the cuckoo, but the nightly disturber of peace had flown away, and the solitary rider began to shiver.

An unshapely cloud now stealthily approached the moon, and had soon covered her up entirely. Then, Master Spazzo recollected that his nurse had told him in his early infancy, how the bad wolf Hati and Monagarm the moon-dog, persecuted the radiant astre. Looking up, he clearly recognised, both wolf and moon-dog in the sky. They had just taken hold with their teeth, of the gentle comforter of belated travellers;--Master Spazzo was convulsed with pity. He drew his sword.

"Vince luna! conquer, oh moon!" cried he, at the top of his voice, and rattling his sword against his greaves. "Vince luna, vince luna!"

His cries were loud, and his jingling metal sounded fierce enough, but the cloud-monsters did not loosen their hold on the moon; only the chamberlain's horse became frightened, and galloped at full speed through the dark wood with him.

When Master Spazzo awoke on the next morning, he found himself lying at the foot of the Hunnic mound. On the meadow, he saw his mantle, whilst his black steed Falada, was indulging in a morning walk, at some distance. The saddle was hanging down on one side, and the reins were torn. Falada, however, was eating the young grass and flowers with evident enjoyment. Slowly the exhausted man lifted his head, and looked about yawning. The convent-tower of Reichenau was mirrored in the distant lake, as peacefully as if nothing whatever had happened. He tore up a bunch of grass, and held the dewy blades to his forehead. "Vince luna!" said he with a bitter sweet smile. He had got a racking headache.