The Hour Will Come: A Tale of an Alpine Cloister. Volumes I and II

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

CHAPTER I.

Joy, joy in all the fields! for it is harvest-time. In all the fields up hill and down dale; down in the valley and up on the heights they are cutting the last swathes, the last Rodnerinnenlocken are sounding--so they call the old traditional cry with which the hay-maker calls upon the blessed phantom-maidens to come and help him. He strikes three times on his scythe with his whet-stone, so that it rings over hill and valley; the phantom-maidens hear it, and hasten down from their cliffs to help the mowers, so that they may get in the harvest in dry weather. For they are kind-hearted and well-disposed to the peasant who contentedly tills his field, and many old folks are still living who have seen with their own eyes that they were not too proud to work in peasant's dress, helping those who were industrious. But since a rude lad once seized upon one of the "good women," and kissed her by force, they no longer show themselves to mortal eyes; only their kind handiwork can be traced. The more industrious a man is, the more they help him, for they never come to any but the industrious; the idle call on them in vain. But this year there must have been more of them than ever, for it is a splendid harvest, and has been got in quicker than usual. Singing and shouting resound on all the meadows, and the long lines of hay-waggons with their intractable teams of spanned oxen seem endless. Children are romping among the odorous hay-cocks in the meadows, or lie on the top of the soft piled up heaps stretching their weary limbs luxuriously; lads and lasses together teazing and joking each other in exuberant merriment.

Up at the window of the eastern tower of Marienberg a pair of large melancholy eyes were gazing longingly down on this glorious, smiling scene. A pair of wonderful eyes they were; deep, dark, and yet full of light as though glowing with some inward fire, so that even the white seemed to take a ruddy tint, like an opal held against the light. They gazed down from the tower with a fixed regard, drinking in all the splendour in one long look.

The gay, social doings of men--the silent, all-powerful day-star that was riding at its noon-tide height and shedding its rays over all the wide landscape, so that every roof and turret of the thirteen hamlets that lay strewn around were distinctly visible up to the very edge of the gleaming snow-fields and glaciers, which were the only limits set to the roving eye--the wide verdant plain, like a garden with softly swelling hills and tufted woods, and traversed by the silvery streak of the murmuring Etsch--all this was mirrored in those hungry, dreamy, far-gazing eyes. They followed the course of the wild, swift rivulet that tosses itself so impatiently over rapids and falls as it leaves the lonely mountain-tarn on the moor, rushing on to the all-engulfing sea. And those eyes sent forth a message of enquiry up to the blue sky, down to the smiling plain, beyond the majestic heads of the great Ortler-chain--a dumb, burning question.

But no answer came back to him; it vanished, wafted away by the winds, like broken gossamer-threads.

The eyes, the anxiously enquiring eyes, belonged to a youth so nobly formed, so full of graciousness, that it seemed as if nature must have formed him for a world of perpetual Sundays, and not for a world of weariness, labour and duty--those grim destroyers of the beautiful.

"Oh! sweet child of humanity; here you sit imprisoned and bemoaning your living death between cloister walls and among pale disfigured faces. Forgive me, O, God! if it is a sin to regret that all that is beautiful should be rejected by pitiless asceticism in these rough times--that it must wander through the world misunderstood and unprized, and either perish like flowers on a cross or sink in the pool of perdition."

Father Eusebius was standing behind the young man's chair and his eyes rested sadly and thoughtfully on the young head, with its thick crown of dark curls that waved rebelliously round the prescribed tonsure. Eusebius had grown old and feeble, he was now ninety-three years old. His hair was like snow, and his body frail and bent, but his spirit was perennially young and his glance had the same power as of old. The youth turned his head. "What, Father Eusebius," said he in surprise. "Are you there? I did not hear you come in. What has brought your weary feet up here?"

"I knew that you would be up here and dreaming again."

"Are you vexed with me?" asked the boy, and a pleading smile lighted up his face as sweetly as when a crystal pool reflects the sunshine.

"Who could be vexed with you?" said Eusebius, and his old eyes lingered with undisguised delight on the beautiful face of the boy, "I only fear lest the brethren should take it ill in you if you keep apart in the recreation-hour."

"Ah, reverend brother," answered the youth, "you cannot know how happy I am up here; I can see out into the wide world, far over hill and valley! This was my first home, here stood my cradle, here a kind voice sang me to sleep and in the little nest up there on the roof I first heard the twittering of birds. I cannot tell you how content I am here. I feel as if when my time comes I must die here and fly straight out of that window into eternity after my little foster-sister--as if there could be no other path-way to Heaven."

Eusebius laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I do understand you, my son. It would be well for you if so it could be and you need only fly away to reach eternal bliss! But a long and weary and thorny path lies before you, a path which you must tread with bleeding feet; and many a heavy cross awaits you that you must bear on aching shoulders ere you may rest in God!"

"Oh! brother--why may I not die at once? Why may I not depart at once and be with the Father, for whom my soul pants?"

"Because we must live--live and work, my son; work for our neighbour and for future generations. Thus only can humanity ripen into perfection; each must do his duty in his own way by word and by example and none may escape his task."

"Why must we first be men if we proceed from God and are his children?" asked the boy with a sigh.

"We do not proceed from God--we shall only go to God! Of dust were we born and out of dust we shall be raised and purified by the Spirit--to the Spirit."

The lad rested his head upon his hand and looked out again. "By the Spirit, to the Spirit--yes--yes--we must cast off this flesh with all its longings and weakness and yet--Oh! Eusebius, it is so hard! It would be so much easier to throw off this whole miserable body at once and die once for all than slowly to crush this throbbing, longing heart. Eusebius, a feeling comes over me as if I must fling my arms wide open and embrace the desert air--as if I must throw myself down on the grass and rest my head on the lap of earth--as if somewhere--in the earth itself or in the warm summer-air--a heart must be beating towards mine on which I might fling myself and weep out all my pain. Ah! Eusebius, it is true you all love me--and I love you; and I love God too and my Holy Mother Mary above all--and still it is not enough and my soul still thirsts for some love--for something--that shall be my own--wholly and solely mine. 'It is not good for man to be alone,' was said by the Lord himself--and I am alone--so utterly, absolutely alone."

And the youth raised his glowing eyes with such fervent entreaty to Eusebius that it cut the old man to the heart. Then he passionately grasped Eusebius' hand.

"Eusebius," he said, "you are wiser than they all. Tell me why must it be so? Why must we love nothing but God? Why is that a sin for us which is permitted to all the rest of mankind?"

Eusebius was startled by this unexpected question. He himself had once upon a time purchased his salvation with his very heart's blood and the wounds had healed. But would that which had cured him work a cure in another? Would the idea that rules the world damp this fire also? Eusebius looked thoughtfully before him and there was a pause as if he were seeking the right words; then he said,

"The great mass of people are struggling upwards by degrees--working, toiling, producing--step by step to the throne of God; but the steps are centuries and it is only after long centuries that the goal is ever visible to them. But there are solitary souls that feel a more powerful impulse towards Heaven than others do and that can separate themselves from the common herd and by great acts of self-denial attain to that perfection, for which centuries are needed by mankind as a whole. Such a soul can tread the direct road to God;--but he must walk alone--for he is shut out from all community with nature as soon as he sets forth upon that road. He no longer belongs to the toiling, producing mass, seething with perpetual reproduction of itself from itself--his life must be one long death. It demands the noblest heroism, the highest effort; for one single glance backwards--one false step on his lonely way to death; and omnipotent nature clutches him again and drags the lost soul back among her blindly-working wheels. But in the last judgment God will judge those presumptuous ones who undertook that which they could not carry through, more hardly than all the others, and will say, 'Why wouldst thou fain be better and greater than these, if thou hadst not the strength to achieve it?' Therefore, my son, we live apart from the world behind these sheltering cloister-walls, that nothing may tempt us from the path of holiness which we have chosen."

Eusebius paused and watched Donatus, who was leaning against the window and breathing hard.

"Eusebius!" he exclaimed, fervently grasping the old man's hand, "God will be merciful and give me strength to carry through that which I have begun--will he not?"

"Who can tell? What we ourselves undertake we ourselves must carry out. Therefore prove your heart, my son, before you swear the great irrevocable vow; you yourself wished to be a priest--you have obtained your wish, in a few days you will be consecrated to God's service. But if in your heart you bear such earthly longings will you be strong enough for such a sacred calling? If not--renounce it rather than some day break a double vow and so be doubly sinful. Better, better that you should fly away into the wide world than that you should be false to your own and to our plighted truth, and so fall lower in the eyes of God than those who never purposed to be more than men among men."

"I fly! I not be a priest!" cried the youth vehemently. "Nay, nay, my brother. You only wish to try me--you cannot be in earnest. If I said anything to make you doubt my truth, forgive me. Never, never has such a thought crossed my mind. And what should I do out in the world? If you drive a bird that was hatched in captivity out of doors it will starve in the midst of plenty--and so it would be with me. Only sometimes I suddenly feel as if the convent were too narrow for me, as if you ought not to keep me here like a prisoner! Look out there--is not that glorious! Must I not long to be out there in the blue distance? Must not the plain below tempt me down there, down to the delicious verdure which affords nourishment and refreshment to all? Must not those solitary heights tempt me up to the everlasting snow, so high, so near to Heaven? Or over there, near the bed of the silver stream, out on the heath where I was born? Is not God everywhere--over there as well as here? And is it not He whom I would seek down in the valley or up among the frozen glaciers? You--all of you--go in and out; you strengthen and refresh your souls in wood and field, why may I only never quit these walls?--why must I, so long as I live, be rooted like a dumb motionless plant within the narrow limits of the little convent garden?"

"My son, I have long expected you to question me thus. I will take upon myself to tell you the reasons why the fathers shelter you so anxiously--against my advice--for so far as I am concerned you should not be a monk nor take the vows of priesthood. I have read many books, old heathen chronicles and histories as well as Christian ones, and I have always found that human wit and human cunning must fail when anything was fore-ordained, and that what must be must. And if it must be, you will be torn from us even if we keep you within seven-fold walls. You must know then that a curse of interdicted love rests upon you; that is why your dying mother dedicated you to the cloister, and the reason of their keeping you so strictly, in order that the last will of the dead may be faithfully carried out. The fathers dread lest every step beyond these walls should entail the accomplishment of the curse; nay, Correntian even proposed that you should be blinded when you came to us as a new-born infant, to secure you for ever from all temptation."

"Dreadful man!" said the lad with a shudder. "But--one thing more--solve, I beg of you, the mystery of my birth. Why was I born out on the heath, who was my mother, and what crime had she committed that my father should cast her out?"

"We all took a solemn oath to our Abbot Conrad--the Abbot at that time--never to breathe the names of your parents either to you or to any one else, so that every tie between you and the world might be broken. Your mother died as a saint, and it was her wish that you too should live and die in an equally saintly manner. You are the child of the church; ask after no other parents. This was the answer we were to give you when you should ask, and so I answer you now, as is my duty."

"Oh! now I understand it all!" said Donatus, his voice trembling with deep agitation. "Woe is me! a curse rested on my innocent head before I saw the light! Aye, it is true; I was the death of the mother that bore me, I made the foster-mother that reared me miserable; she lost her husband and child for my sake. I was born to misfortune, and misfortune will pursue me wherever I go. Yes, you are right, there is no road for me but that to God, not a hope but Heaven! and I will keep three-fold watch over myself now that I know this! I will quell my rebellious heart even if it must break. I will not dream up here any more; no more shall the soft breath of the morning-breeze caress me, no more will I inhale the aromatic fragrance of the limes beneath this window nor let my gaze wander round the smiling distance--all these things rouse my longing! And perish the wishes even which may tempt me away from the step of the Altar to which I am dedicated! I am yours henceforth body and soul, and the world shall never more rob you of a single thought of my mind!"

"God grant it may be so!" said Eusebius, and his eyes rested sadly on the transfigured countenance of his young companion. Did he shake his head? no, he was only shaking off a startled moth. And Donatus rose.

"Let us go down," he said, "and leave this ensnaring spot which too much befools my senses! For I feel I had said things that I ought not to have said, and that it was not God who lent me such words."

So saying he closed the little window with its panes, obscured by dust and its worm-eaten frame. At this moment a cheery blast from a horn rang in the distance. "Oh look!" cried Donatus, "a procession of riders is coming up the mountain!"

Eusebius went to the window.

"It is true," said he, "a riding party--they are coming here; we must hurry down to announce them to the Abbot; come."

It was eleven o'clock, the hour when the brethren walked in the garden for recreation. Abbot Conrad of Ramüss, for it was he who now wore the mitre, was just then walking under a shady alley of trees and discussing with one of the brethren the preparations for ordaining Donatus a priest; for his favourite's festival must be kept with all the pomp of which the rules of the order allowed. Noonday silence lay on the peaceful little garden. The apricots and pears on the walls swelled their ruddy cheeks under the hot rays of a July sun and the brethren rested at their ease, stretched out in the shade of quiet arbours and trees. The pigeons cooed on the roof, and at the foot of the Crucifix, where the sun shone hottest, lay the lazy old convent cat, her green eyes sleepily closed.

Suddenly a wild noise was heard at the gate, the neighing of horses and barking of dogs, blasts on the horn and confused shouting; the brethren sprang, up in alarm. Donatus and Eusebius hurried up. "For God's sake, venerable Abbot--there is a splendid riding party at the gate, desiring to be admitted," they called out, "What shall we do?"

"What we cannot avoid doing--give them what they require."

"Oh, dear!" lamented fat old Wyso, who had been brought out by the alarm and who could hardly walk for old age and swelled feet. "Oh, dear! they will eat us up like the Egyptian locusts--do not let them in--or ask first who they are. We are not bound to harbour any one but the lords of the soil and they have already left us poor."

"Good brother Wyso," said the Abbot smiling, "if it pleased the Lord to let a swarm of locusts fall upon us, should we not be obliged to submit? so submit to these and act cordially with us in showing hospitality."

Thus speaking they had reached the gate and the Abbot himself opened it and met the impatient troop with a dignified demeanour.

High above him on horseback sat a number of nobles with a crowd of followers. The gay robes of silk and velvet, trimmed with costly furs, shone splendidly in the sun. Men and beasts were bathed in sweat from their hot ride up the steep hill.

"Deo gratias, noble gentlemen," said the Abbot. "If you are satisfied to accept what a poor, out-of-the-world mountain-convent has to offer, step in and be welcome in Christ's name."

"Come in, as many as there is room for," said the foremost horseman with a laugh, urging his prancing horse through the narrow doorway. "God save you, my lord Abbot, I do not think you good folks here starve?" he added with a merry glance at Wyso, who was trying to keep his gouty feet in safety out of the way of the crowd of horses.

The knight guided his horse under a shed, in order to alight in the shade; as many of the others followed as could come in; the silent convent yard was like a bustling camp, the mass of horses and men were pressed so closely together in crowded confusion. The horses kicked out in every direction, not liking such close quarters; the hindermost forcing their way in, the foremost unable to go any farther in the narrow space. There was pushing and screaming, prancing and stamping. Wyso escaped into the house, not without abusing the visitors, and even the other monks were frightened and startled out of their quiet life by the rough incursion of this high-handed party.

"Oh--locusts! locusts! you would be a lovely sight compared to these monsters!" Wyso lamented as he looked out of window.

At last all the horses were put up, some in the cattle stalls and some tied up in a row all round the walls, nay some--and this cut the brethren to the heart--some to the beautiful promising fruit trellises--the toil and care of many years all undone in an instant! And the brethren looked with consternation as they saw great horses' mouths with rolling tongues and sniffing nostrils poking about in the trees and eating what they took a fancy to, pending the arrival of better fare.

"What is to be done?" said the Abbot in a low voice to the brethren, "We must submit! And this is a friendly incursion--think what it would be if it were a hostile invasion--God preserve us!"

Meanwhile the marauding visitors had without farther ado overrun the hay lofts and brought down fodder for their horses, and to facilitate the beasts' enjoyment of it they stuffed it between the bars of the fruit trellises, for there were no mangers in the convent. The pack of dogs let loose in the little garden tore with wild howls across the flower beds in chase of the convent cat, who had little expected such visitors.

"Now, my lord Abbot," said the foremost of the riders good-humouredly enough, but in a tone of rough command. "Where are your cellarers? They should have appeared long ago to present us with a bowl of wine! True hospitality does not delay till the rider has his foot out of the stirrup."

"You shall be served at once, my lords!" said the Abbot. "You must take the will for the deed, for we are inexperienced and unaccustomed to receiving so many guests."

"But if I am well-informed you have occasionally received your seignior, the Count of Matsch--or Amatia, as they prefer to call it, with all his following?"

"We are the vassals of the Count of Matsch; it is an old right of our liege lords to visit us once a year," answered the Abbot.

"Then you cannot refuse to your sovereign prince what you grant to your liege," said the knight. "I am Meinhard the Second of Görtz and Tyrol and the Duchess is following me immediately."

The Abbot bowed to the very ground in pleasure and respect, "Happy is the day that procures us the honour of seeing your gracious countenance! Hail to Duke Meinhard!"

"Hail to Duke Meinhard! our powerful protector. Hail!" rang from all lips, and even Wyso came hobbling out again, panting and perspiring, and made his way with unwonted courage among the horses to testify his respect for the powerful Duke.

"Now the ducal horses might be welcome to eat all the apricots and pears, and the dogs to trample all the vegetables and flowers--this is quite another matter!"

"Make way--make way for the Duchess and her suite!" was now the cry of the marshal at the gate, and all made way for the litters of the Duchess and her ladies.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Women in the cloister! And we cannot keep them out, for our wise rule allows princesses to enter!" lamented Wyso slily and winking with secret delight at Correntian, who was standing near him. "What do you say to such doings, Correntian?"

The Duke and the Abbot went to meet the procession and receive the noble lady. Foremost of all on a quiet horse rode the marshal, then followed the panting and sweating beasts that bore the Duchess' litter, each walking between two poles which hung from their backs from strong girths; one went in front and the other behind, each guided by a driver with a large cracking whip. Between them swung the tall palanquin with light rustling curtains of red silk, blown about by the hot south-wind, and inside it, wearily stretched out on soft crimson cushions embroidered with gold, lay a pale, delicate woman, closely veiled and so simply dressed that it was visible at the first glance that her mind was not set on the royal splendour with which her proud husband loved to surround her. But the ladies of her suite looked all the more haughty as they followed her on horseback. They rode behind the litter between the rows of monks, laughing and chattering, swaying their slender bodies carelessly on their broad-backed palfreys and looking curiously at the shorn heads around them, from under their broad hats, adorned with peacock feathers. Suddenly one of them drew her embroidered rein and whispered to her neighbour, "Look, there is a handsome one!" And all eyes followed hers to where Donatus was standing with downcast lids, grave and silent.

"Forwards!" cried the marshal, for a troop of riders were still behind as an escort for the ladies.

The Abbot had taken the leading-rein of the foremost horse in the litter and guided it with his own hand through the court to the inner gateway; here he paused and went up to the lady, "May it please you, noble lady," he said, "to alight and to put up with the accommodation of our humble roof."

At a sign from the marshal the squires and pages sprang forward. In an instant the horses were unharnessed, the litter let down on to the ground, the ladies lifted from their horses and litter and horses all led on one side. The Duchess, a lady of middle age and apparently afflicted by severe illness, bowed her head humbly before the Abbot. "Give me your blessing, reverend Father," she said softly.

The Abbot blessed her and led her with her ladies into the cool refectory.

"Will you condescend to rest and cool yourself here for a time, noble Lady?" he said, "while I see to providing some farther refreshment."

He conducted the men of the party into a large dining hall which he himself had built and which was only just finished; here the brother-cellarer had set large goblets which were all dewy outside from the coolness of the wine they contained; that was a drink after the frightful heat! hardly could the thirsty lips part with the bowl till the last drop was drained; there were rich cheese and fragrant rolls too, to stay their hunger till the noon-day meal was ready. For the Abbot would fain do everything that the resources of the house admitted, and its resources were many, for it had long been in a flourishing condition, and the labours and tillage of the monks had been blessed. He sent new milk to the ladies and little wheaten cakes with limpid golden honey, as might beseem fastidious ladies' lips.

Thus he cared paternally and tenderly for his guests, rejoicing at the evident satisfaction with which they enjoyed it. Even the grooms in the court-yard had heavy loads of bread and mead carried out to them, and soon there was such riot and jubilee as if they had entered into the land of Canaan. Nay the thoughtful host had remembered even the dogs; they stood in a circle round a great bowl of cool butter-milk and were lapping it with their hot tongues. Through the railings of the underground windows there rose up a mighty steam and reek of roast and stewed. The choicest fowls and fat joints of hastily slaughtered mutton sputtered on the rarely-used spits, for such a dainty meal was never prepared but for strangers, and the unusual savour of meat pleasantly tickled brother Wyso's nostrils. He could not omit this opportunity of saying spitefully to Correntian,

"Hey! what is that smell?"

"The devil's roast!" said Correntian with a burst of anger, for the whole occurrence was an abomination to him, and he could hardly control his indignation. He muttered the words of the prophet Isaiah, chap. 22: "Et ecce gaudium et lætitia, occidere vitulos et jugulare arietes, comedere carnes et bibere vinum--they slaughter oxen, they slay sheep, eating flesh, and drinking wine. Comedamus et libamus, cras enim moriemur--let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."

"Come, come," said Wyso chuckling. "It is not so bad as all that--we shall not die quite so soon as to-morrow, unless we may enjoy ourselves too freely to-day, and eat and drink too much--"

"Et revelata est in auribus meis vox Domini: si dimittetur iniquitas hæc vobis, donec moriamini--and in my ears was the voice of the Lord of Sabaoth: Verily this sin shall not be forgiven thee till thou die!" continued Correntian, but Wyso was not to be silenced.

"If the reverend Abbot grants us a dispensation, God too will forgive us the sin. Not that which goes into the mouth defiles the man, but that which proceeds out of the mouth. Do you understand? Well, why are you staring at me like that with your martyr's face?" he added in a tone of good humoured scolding to Donatus. "When I was your age, would I have girded my hungry stomach with rough haircloth, that I might ride lighter on the road to Heaven? Good Lord! they would have to haul me up with cords now, if I had to take all my earthly ballast up with me. But as we must leave to the earth all that is of the earth, earthy, it is all the same what we stuff ourselves with--that is my view."

Meanwhile the guests within had satisfied their first hunger and thirst, and Duke Meinhard had informed the Abbot of the reason of his visit. His wife Elizabeth of Bavaria had so long felt herself ailing and feeble, that before her end came she would fain do some good deed for the welfare of her soul, and with this end in view she had founded a House of God at Stams in the Ober-Innthal. The building was now far advanced, and she had made up her mind to undertake a journey, in order to inspect all the most distinguished foundations in the country, and thus to inform herself as to what arrangement of the building, what system and preparatory dispositions would be most advantageous to the newly founded religious house. When the noble lady was rested it was her wish that the Abbot might conduct her round the monastery, so that she might see everything for herself.

The Abbot declared himself most ready to aid in so Christian a work, and he designated Donatus, as his favourite and most promising disciple, for the high honour of conducting the Duchess, as the Duke took possession of the Abbot himself, to confer in manly fashion about the neighbourhood, the customs of the inhabitants of Vintschgau, and all sorts of things ecclesiastical and temporal.

Donatus coloured with surprise when the Abbot informed him of his good-fortune; nay his imploring look seemed to convey a remonstrance; but that was impossible, the brethren of the order might never say "no."

Next to the Duke sat a broad-shouldered, dark man, sunk in sullen, brooding silence. His hair was grey, but before its time, his brow morosely wrinkled and marked down the middle with a strong angry vein. He took no part in the conversation, and from the moment when he had taken his place he never once had moved his eyes from the end of the table where Donatus was sitting.

"Well, Count," said the Duke, pushing him to rouse him, and nodding to him over his glass. "You are staring fixedly at that one spot; does that young fellow remind you of your own youth?"

"It is strange, but do not you think that the boy is like me?" muttered the Count.

"He certainly is, to a hair; and if you had a son I could believe it was he. Only you never looked as gentle and sweet as he does; do not you agree with me, Count Reichenberg?"

"Count Reichenberg!" For an instant every face turned pale as the monks heard that name; Donatus only remained quite unconcerned, for he knew not as yet who and what Count Reichenberg was to him.

"By my soul!" cried another of the gentlemen, "you are as like each other as young and old, tender and tough can be."

Count Reichenberg sprang up. "My Lord Abbot," said he, "a word with you."

The Abbot turned paler than before; he exchanged but one rapid glance with the brethren, but they all understood him; then he rose and followed the Count into a deep window-bay.

"My Lord Abbot, I am a connection of yours, do you not know me?" said the knight without farther preface.

"I never saw you," replied the Abbot. "For since my sixteenth year I have lived out of the world as a monk. But if you are the man who married my sister and then repudiated her, you are no relation of mine, there can be no friendship between that man and me."

"I am the man," said Reichenberg defiantly. "I ask you--where that boy came from to you?" He pointed with an angry expression to Donatus.

"He was bequeathed to us," said the Abbot calmly.

"By whom?" The Abbot looked at Reichenberg, measuring him from head to foot with a steady gaze.

"That," he said, "is a secret of the confessional."

"I will pay you for it," the Count whispered in his ear. "Your convent shall benefit largely, I will make over to you by deed a manor and an alp above Taufers with glebe and pasturage, and all rights secured to you--only tell me the name of the boy's parents."

"No, my lord--not a word; did you ever hear that a Benedictine sold the secrets of the confessional?"

The Count stamped his foot.

"Then I will find some means of making you speak by force--at a more opportune moment."

The Abbot looked at him quietly and proudly. "You may kill me, but you can never make me speak."

"Then one of your herd will, who is less steadfast that you."

"I will answer for my brethren, man by man," said the Abbot with dignity.

The Count raised his hand threateningly, "Woe to you if I discover what I suspect--"

"Ho, ho! Count Reichenberg, what are you making this noise about?" and the Duke suddenly stepped between them. "What am I to think of you for thus disturbing the peace of this quiet hour?"

"I will inform you presently, my lord Duke. Just now grant me one word with the young monk there." He signed to Donatus to approach, and the boy rose and came modestly forward.

"Will you tell me who you are?"

"I am a monk," said Donatus, shortly and firmly.

"I see that--but who were you originally--who were your parents?"

Donatus looked calmly at him--"I do not know."

The Count cast a glance of hatred at the Abbot, "Oh, you priests, you priests; who ever got behind your tricks?"

"Pray be easy, Count Reichenberg," said the Duke soothingly. "I did not come here to torment peaceable monks who entertain us hospitably.--Do not take this to heart, my lord Abbot--nor you reverend brethren!" he signed to a servant who was standing by a large chest in a corner. "Look here, I have something to show you!" He opened, the coffer, which the man carried with difficulty, and took out of it a magnificent chalice of pure gold encrusted with garnets and chased with artistic reliefs representing the Passion, a work so fine and costly that the monks had never seen the like.

"Look here, this is the work of master Berthold, the goldsmith of Ulm," said the Duke.

Then he took out a little golden tube with a mouth-piece of amber, such as were in use at that time, in order that, when the Cup was presented, clumsy or greedy partakers might not imbibe too much of the costly wine. Next he produced a heavy golden Paten; this was in the same way set with garnets round the edge, and had two finely chased handles, while on the ground of the dish a cross was engraved. This he set on the table by the side of the Cup that all the brethren might rejoice in the sight. Finally he brought out a dozen of pure silver apples of artistic pierced work and called Calefactories; these were hand-warmers for the monks. They were filled with glowing charcoal and held in the hands to prevent the monks' fingers from being frozen at the early mass in winter.

"Well! how do you like them?" asked the lordly donor, well pleased at the astonishment and admiration with which the monks gazed at the costly treasure. "Do you think they will pay you for our dinner?" The Abbot looked at him enquiringly.

"I do not understand you, my lord!"

"No?--that is my offering in return for your hospitality. You shall have cause to remember the day when you entertained your Duke under your roof."

The brethren, with the exception of Correntian and Donatus, sprang up with confused cries of delighted surprise, "Oh! can it be!" and, "It is too much!" and the Abbot said with moistened eyes,

"You are magnificent in your favours, my Lord, and may God reward you, for we are only poor monks and can make you no return but by blessings and prayers."

"That is all I ask," said Duke Meinhard laughing, "only pray for me stoutly--I am sure to want it, for I hope to commit many more sins, and I shall have great need of the intercession of pious folks with the Almighty." He threw the treasure back into the heavy chest and slammed down the lid.

"There!" he exclaimed, "now take all the property away into your treasury and let us have dinner brought in as soon as possible, for we must proceed to-day to Münster and pass the night there. The Duchess wishes to spend some time in the convent of St. Gertrude, while we men ride to market and hunt in the neighbourhood."

"If it please, your lordship, to wait until we have shown her highness your wife the extent and arrangement of the monastery as she wishes--" suggested the Abbot.

"Aye--pray do so, my lord Duke," urged Wyso anxiously. "It will be to the advantage of your teeth if you leave the fat sheep, which were running about only an hour ago to sweat a little longer in front of the fire."

Reichenberg looked sharply at the fat monk with his thick lips and sensual grin. "You are not the man to die for the sake of keeping a vow," thought he. "When you have well drunk you will make a clean breast of it."

"Very well," said the Duke. "Then we will wait--less for the sake of my teeth than of yours, old gentleman--if indeed you still have any left. You will grant a dispensation this day in our honour, my Lord Abbot, will you not?"

"I will do so, my Lord," said the Abbot smiling, "they may enjoy themselves to their heart's content. And so, Donatus, my son, come now with me that I may conduct you to her ladyship, the Duchess, if she will accept you as her guide."

Donatus rose with simple dignity, and followed the Abbot. The two gentlemen, Meinhard and Reichenberg, looked after him in silence.

"Tell me, Count, what passed between you and the youngster that you got so angry about it?" asked the Duke, pushing back a little way from the table that the others might not overhear them.

"It is a mere whim, if you will," replied Reichenberg in a low voice. "But the boy's resemblance to me struck me amazingly. I--I might have had a child who would have been of just his age, and if it had been a son he might have looked exactly like that, for not only is the lad like me, he has just my wife's eyes and soft voice."

"Your wife's?" said the Duke, and he shook his head.

"My first wife's," said the Count, "whom I repudiated just about the time when my first child would have been born. You were then only a boy, and you were not at the court of your grandfather Albert. My wife was a Ramüss, and hardly were we married when that venomous serpent, the Countess of Eppan, poisoned my ear and heart. Not till last year, when the wretched woman was on her deathbed and sent to me in her last agony, did she confess that she had accused my wife falsely, in order to obtain her place. The name and wealth of the Reichenberg family were an eyesore to her, for she was both poor and haughty; the castle of Reichenberg, as you know, formerly belonged to the house of Eppan. She longed to restore it to them by a marriage with me--her heart was never mine as I saw very plainly later on. Now for a year past I have been wandering about the world, seeking in vain for some trace of my outcast wife. God in Heaven alone knows what may have become of them both, mother and child; my race ends with me, and I myself have driven out the heir that God perhaps had granted me--an outcast--to die! And that boy's eyes struck me like a thunderbolt. He looked just as my wife looked when I drove her away. Duke, if it were he--" The Count was silent, and his lips quivered.

"What good would it do you? It would be too late; he has taken the vows, and you could not break them."

The Count looked darkly before him, and made no reply.

"Your second wife never had much joy of her treason; you repudiated her too if I remember rightly?"

"Yes; at the end of two years the Pope gave me permission to announce that my first wife was dead, and to marry again; my mind had already wandered from the Lady of Eppan, but I had to keep my word--she held me to it hard and fast--and so she became my wife; but I was always away from home in battle and danger, for the world was spoilt for me, and so was all my liking for that false woman. When I returned from my four years' expedition to the Holy Land I found her carrying on an intrigue with Master Friedrich von Sunburc, the minnesinger and chronicler of your father's court. Nay more, a faithful waiting-woman of my first wife who could never get over the loss of her former mistress, betrayed to me that the shameless woman had not long since had a daughter, and had concealed the child with a strange beggar-woman whom she had met gathering berries and simples in the woods; as soon as the news of my return was known, the woman and the child had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. How I punished her, how the minnesinger was expelled from the court by Meinhard the first, and how she died, abandoned to remorse in her own ruined castle, all that you know."

"She was an intriguing coquette," said the Duke shaking his head, "and ensnared all men with her gold-gleaming owl's eyes and her auburn hair. She had something of the witch about her, and I could almost believe that she was one, for you know the common people say that you can tell a witch not by her feet only, but by her eye-brows that meet above her nose; she had such eye-brows you may remember?"

"I do not believe in such things," said Reichenberg sulkily.

"Nor I either," said the Duke laughing. "But there was something not quite canny about her, say what you will."

The Abbot meanwhile had taken Donatus to the Duchess.

"May it please you, noble Lady," said he, "that this youth, my favourite disciple, should have the honour of guiding you in your walk round the convent."

The Duchess glanced at Donatus with condescending kindness, and the court-ladies exchanged meaning glances, "That is the one we saw just now." Donatus stood in the door-way with downcast eyes.

"Come then," said the Duchess rising. "Two of you accompany me; you, Emerita, and you, Countess Hildegard."

The two chosen ones sprang forward with pleasure; one of them, Hildegard, was the beauty who had previously pulled up her horse in her admiration of Donatus' fine figure. She wore a light blue upper-garment or cappa of a fine and almost transparent woollen stuff, and under it a dress of heavy yellow silk rich with gold and bordered with white fur. She had laid aside her broad hat, and her very light hair was bound with a golden circlet, and crowned with fresh Alpine roses that she had gathered on the way. Her handsome dress hung round her slender form in soft folds, and was gathered in round her waist by a girdle of red velvet embroidered with gold. She was fair to see, that haughty maiden! Her brow was as white as marble, and the roses in her cheeks were heightened by a faint touch of the finest Florentine rouge. Her flashing eyes seemed to ask: "Where is there one fairer than I?" Nothing was to be got out of the simple God-fearing monks in the cloister, which she now must explore with the Duchess, nothing but looks of disapprobation of such worldly court-fashions, and if she could not ere long produce some sort of sensation, she felt she must die of tedium.

The other, Emerita, the Duchess' favourite, was dressed no less splendidly though less elaborately; her hair was modestly fastened up in a fine net of silver-threads tied with white, and a black velvet cap embroidered with pearls; her robes of soft white silk and woollen stuff were bordered with dark fur, and fell heavily and simply to her feet.

The Duchess herself was the most plainly dressed of all; deeply veiled in matronly fashion, and enveloped from her shoulders in the broad folds of a brown silk mantle fastened over her bosom with a single gold clasp; the rest of her dress consisted entirely of grey woollen stuff.

These three figures--so unlike each other--followed their monkish guide through the cold, damp, musty corridors of the vast building.

He led them first to the library; the Duchess found here a rich harvest for her craving for pious learning, for sacred books and parchments of inestimable value and splendour were amassed in it, and she was soon greedily absorbed in these treasures. Hildegard was almost in despair. The dust of books and rouge! these have little in common! And no one by but the coy saint with a head like a heathen god, as fine as any to be seen in Rome--living, breathing, and yet of marble! A secret revulsion to spite and hatred sprang up in her soul. Tedium is the parent of all kinds of crime. But to her great joy just then it occurred to the Duke to accompany the Duchess on her tour round the convent, and, conducted by the Abbot, he at this instance entered the library.

"Well, Countess Hildegard, how do you like yourself here?" said he, laughing and threatening her with his finger. "How fine you are! Come, come, do not be bewitching the poor young monk with your charms."

"Do not be alarmed, my Lord," said Hildegard mockingly, "he has not vouchsafed us a single glance; I believe his eyes have grown fixed to the ground."

The Duke looked at her with a smile. "That is a sad grievance for you, is it not, Hildegard? If it is but a monk he ought to admire you."

Hildegard coloured and was silent; but the Duke, good-humouredly carrying on the joke, said to Donatus, "Tell me, pious brother, why do you keep your eyes so immoveably fixed on the ground; are our fair maids of honour not worthy to be looked at?"

Donatus was standing before the Duchess, holding a heavy folio which she was turning over. "It does not become a servant of God to gaze at anything but the earth, which will be his grave, or Heaven, which is his hope," he replied with serene gravity.

The Duchess looked at his guileless countenance, and deep compassion filled her soul, she knew not wherefore. She could have loved this youth as a son.

"You are right, my child, and may God give you strength to hold to your principles," she said benevolently.

"Ah! you see," said the Duke in a low voice to tease Hildegard. "Your arts are wasted on him, pretty Countess; here at length is a man who can resist you."

"What do you mean, my lord?--I will bring him to look at me this very day--or I will go for a year in sack-cloth and ashes and break every looking-glass," whispered Hildegard smiling and showing two rows of brilliant teeth to the Duke's admiring eyes.

"Aye, aye," he said laughing, "that would indeed be a conquest for you. You have Princes and Dukes at your apron strings--and now a poor monk's soul must burn in eternal fires for your sake."

The Abbot suggested that they should proceed; the Duke gave his arm to his wife, the Abbot went on in front, Emerita followed; Hildegard hung behind a little.

"You take your vows in the strictest sense, and that no doubt is right," she said. "But it seems to me, worthy brother, that you must have very little confidence in your own strength if you have to guard your glances so strictly. Are you afraid lest a single look should bring you to ruin?--If so--forgive me, but I cannot help saying it--if so, your virtue is in a very bad plight." Thus she teased and tried to pique Donatus who walked by her side in silence.

"Whether I am strong or weak--I do not know. But it is written in the first epistle of Paul to Timothy, that women shall adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but with piety and good works. And your dress is against this commandment--you are scandal in the eyes of the Lord--and the eyes of men should avoid seeing you."

"Bless me! That sounds very terrible! Such a severe speech would better become a father confessor than your youthful years; but even stern words sound soft from your lips, and I would sooner obey you than any old lenten preacher." And without pausing to consider, she took off her golden chaplet with its pearls and preciously wrought trefoils, she took out the broad gold clasp which held her robe together over her full bosom, so as to uncover her white throat--and she laid them both in the young monk's hand.

"There," she said, "take these for your poor; I offer them willingly, and I will give up everything that I usually wear if you will only give me one friendly look to repay me." The inexperienced boy stood speechless; was she in earnest? Was it true that she was so submissive to his words, so self-sacrificing, so ready to repent? And he involuntarily raised his eyes and looked at her--a wide, questioning, admiring gaze. She caught his glance and fixed it with a magic spell, entangling him in a net, woven as it were of the radiant glances of her own eyes.

"Oh!" she sighed softly, and her voice fell caressingly on his ear like the faint whisper of the limes under the eastern turret-window, "You see, you too can smile. Believe me such a smile on your lips has more power than a whole epistle of St. Paul."

Donatus was alarmed and his lids dropped again. "God forbid! You were joking and I thought you were in earnest. Take back your golden ornaments--they burn my hands as though they had been forged in unholy fires."

But she pushed the things from her and said with an air of sweet earnestness, "Nay--you do me an injustice. If I talk the language of the world teach me a better one. Look at me! your gaze has a purifying power; look at me, look me in the face and see if I can lie?" And once more he raised his eyes and drank the sweet poison of beauty such as he had never dreamed of.

"Come, come!" it was the Duke's voice, "my coy brother; you are already over head and ears in contemplation of our maid-of-honour! It seems to me she has converted you more quickly than you have converted her.'"

Donatus started, as from a dream; he blushed deeply, and casting down his eyes, he turned to the Abbot to present him with the jewels, which he still held in his hand. The Abbot, much surprised, thanked and blessed the generous donor.

But the Duchess paused and called Hildegard to her side.

"Why did you disturb us?" whispered Hildegard angrily in the Duke's ear as she passed him. Her breath came quickly and her cheeks glowed more scarlet than their rouge.

"You are a perfect fiend, Hildegard," the Duke whispered in return.

"I am much displeased with you, Countess," said the Duchess. "What have you to do with that innocent young monk? Try your arts where you will, only not here on these saintly men and do not destroy the peace of these chaste souls. I fear we shall never suit each other, Hildegard."

Hildegard set her teeth, then she said, "Very well, my lady Duchess, when we reach Munster I will ask you to grant me an escort to conduct me back to my father's castle, if my service is no longer acceptable to you."

"That will be best for you and for me," said the Duchess calmly, and she passed in by a door which the Abbot unlocked, and which opened into some steps that led down to the subterranean hall.

"In a few days," said the Abbot, who had not observed what was passing, "we shall celebrate in this crypt a requiem for the wife of our noble founder, who died in the Holy Land. Our youngest brother Donatus will then preach his first discourse, for on the following day he is to be consecrated to the priesthood." Thus speaking he led the way down the steep damp stairs, and the sanctity of the spot struck them all involuntarily silent.

Meanwhile Reichenberg was waiting in the refectory, sunk in gloomy brooding, and the hungry monks, who had long passed their usual meal-time, stood about listening if the footsteps of the company might not haply be coming nearer. At last the brother who was in control of the kitchen sounded the dinner-bell, and at the same instant the Duchess entered the refectory with Donatus, the Duke following with the Abbot. The Duchess was deep in conversation with her companion; presently turning to the Abbot, she said kindly,

"I thank you, my Lord Abbot; I have seen a great deal that has both delighted and instructed me. Particularly the library--I could spend whole hours there, for you have inestimable treasures preserved there in ancient manuscripts written by pious, learned, and godly men. But above all, I must honestly confess--nay more than all the books of wisdom--this child has edified and elevated my spirit. In good truth, my Lord Abbot, Heavenly blossoms grow in your garden and this world would be a Paradise if the Lord had many such gardeners."

"Dear me! the Duchess is growing quite young again," said the Duke with a laughing, threatening gesture. "Hey, hey! my Lord Abbot, what sort of monks have we here that turn the heads of all the ladies, old and young?"

"Do not laugh, my lord," said the Duchess gravely. "I assure you, the wisdom of old age and the innocence of childhood are united in this youth. If I had only known sooner, my Lord Abbot, what disciples you could bring up, I should have chosen the monks for my new foundation from your community, and I deeply regret that I have already made an agreement with Morimond, the head of the Cistercian Abbey, for none can have higher qualifications than you possess. But this at least I beg of you, that you will spare me this youth to be my castle chaplain. You tell me he is to be anointed priest; let him exercise his holy office in my service, and God in Heaven will recompense you for the good deed you will do to a poor sick woman."

The Abbot was silent for a moment from surprise and looked at Donatus. "Happy child!" said he, "what honours are heaped upon your head. Shall I grant this gracious lady's wish and give you to her? Speak freely."

"No--Father!" cried Donatus in mortal terror. "You will not cast me out!"

"Forgive him, Madam," said the Abbot smiling. "We have taught him always to speak nothing but the truth. You see, it is not compulsion that keeps him here, and it will not be against his will if I find myself obliged to refuse your request! The boy, in fact, must never leave the convent, a sacred vow binds us and him."

"Nay, then God forbid that I should force you to break it, and since it is so I renounce the wish though with regret. But I tell you--and remember my words--if ever you find yourselves under the pressure of any need, if you are threatened by enemies, or if for any cause whatever you have occasion to crave any favour from me, send this youth to ask it, and, on my word of honour, whatever you ask shall be granted you. My noble husband will help me to fulfil this promise."

"Yes!" cried the Duke laughing. "By Heaven! your will is my will, Elizabeth, but now keep me no longer from my dinner, for I am almost dead of hunger."

Donatus stepped modestly up to the Abbot. "Father, you granted a dispensation for to-day, but give me leave, I entreat you, to keep myself from flesh and wine."

"Do as you will, if you do not wish for meat do not eat any."

"Yes, I wish for it, but for that reason I would deny myself," said Donatus in a low voice.

"You are right, my son," said the Abbot, and his eye rested with unutterable affection on the boy's pure brow.

The serving brother now brought in the first dish, and the Duchess signed to the Abbot to sit by her side.

"Where are your ladies, Madam?" asked the Abbot.

"I did not bring them in with me to dinner, for they are young and vain, and might disturb the grave souls of your younger brethren. So, if you please, you will send them out some of the dishes."

"I am obliged to you for your forethought," replied the Abbot. "You have saved our brethren much scandal. Let us now say grace."

Grace was said and the meal proceeded; the serving brethren could hardly carry the heavy copper vessels with their savoury contents. All enjoyed themselves but Correntian and Donatus, who sat at the farther end of the table, and would touch none of the tempting food.

When dinner was over the Duchess returned to her ladies; the Duke rose from table, and withdrew to rest for a while in the Abbot's cell; the brethren and the gentlemen sought the shade and freshness of the cool arbours in the garden. No one was left in the dining-hall but Count Reichenberg and Wyso. Wyso, flushed with his intemperate enjoyment of God's gifts of meat and drink, was resting his red face on the table, and snoring loudly. Suddenly he felt himself roughly shaken; he looked up blinking, and saw the Count--Donatus' father--standing by him.

"What is it--what do you want?" said Wyso stuttering, and he lazily sat up. "Oh, Oh--what a thing is man? Oh! for shame--what have I eaten?"

"Can you still understand what is said to you, in spite of your drunkenness?" asked Reichenberg in a harsh tone.

Wyso snorted and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Oh dear! eating and drinking is a glorious gift of God!" he stuttered in a lamentable voice. "But all the time there is a little devil at the bottom called Too-much, and he spoils the pleasure of it."

The Count gave him another shake. "You have too much wit to be quite drunk; listen to me, you can and you must."

A glance shot from Wyso's little eyes, all swelled as they were with drink--a glance at the Count so full of cunning that Reichenberg seized him roughly by the shoulder.

"I believe," he said, "you take me for a fool."

"I believe I have made a fool of you, my Lord; so at least it would seem by your not stirring from my side. But take heart, my Lord! Was it not a splendid dinner?"

"You may henceforth have better dinners than you ever get here; you may come with me to Reichenberg, I will give you my chaplaincy, there is not a fatter living in the country; then you may eat all day whatever your heart desires, and I will furnish your cellar;--only say one single word--"

Wyso cast a sly sidelong glance at Reichenberg.

"You are very wise, my Lord, not to stint your bacon when you want to catch your mouse."

"Well, I should think a good broil of bacon would smell better to a sturdy old glutton like you, than the incense they will burn upon your coffin when fasting and prayer have brought your miserable life to a close."

Wyso slowly winked with one eye.

"Ah!" said he. "Is that what you should think?"

"Tell me, whose child is the young monk whom you call Donatus?"

Wyso's head suddenly fell down on his breast again, and he began to snore.

"Do not pretend to be asleep, I do not believe it. You are a cunning fellow; what, is the living not enough for you! I will give you a nag and a sledge, much finer than those of the Bishop of Chur, goat-skins for shoes, and white lamb-skins--what more shall I offer you? Only say what you desire, and you shall have it."

Wyso looked at him with a cunning glance.

"You are a very clever man, my Lord, but you do not know us yet! Do you really suppose that because I do not turn up my eyes, and drawl out the name of God, nor snap in two from sheer fasting and scourging when any one touches me like a starved cockchafer--do you suppose that I am a gluttonous booby who holds his conscience between his teeth, and can wash away all oaths, all honour, and all fidelity to the Church which he has served all his life long in one unwonted drinking bout? No, my Lord, clever as you are, we have not gone so far as that; you may catch mice with bacon, but not Benedictines; do you understand?" And from loud laughter he fell to coughing till every vein swelled, and he had to wipe his face with the corner of the tablecloth.

"You oily priest--you! You mock me, do you? I will see if I cannot find means to make you speak--" and he unconsciously clutched at the knife in his girdle; his blood boiled with rage and he hardly knew what he was doing.

"What do you want, my Lord?" said Wyso coolly. "Would you like to rip my body up? That would do you no good--I have not written the secret on parchment and then swallowed it!"

Reichenberg stood for a moment speechless from astonishment, then his arm dropped as if suddenly sobered. Reflection came back to him and he understood that his efforts were wasted on this half-drunken cynic.

"The devil only knows what you priests are bound by," he muttered and put his knife back into its ivory sheath.

"Take a little nap, Count Reichenberg," said Wyso, smiling mischievously, "when children have not slept they are always ill-tempered. God grant the dinner may be blest to you! it must have cost us at least twenty gulden, everything included." The Count turned away and walked moodily to the window. "Go now, my Lord, and if you do not want to make an end of me, do not disturb me any more in my noon-tide sleep," said Wyso, laying his arms on the table and his red face on them, and pretending once more to be asleep.

"Count Reichenberg," said the Duke laughing, as Reichenberg went out into the courtyard, his spurs ringing as he walked, "Have you any more progeny in these parts? If so pray tell me beforehand, for your humour is enough to spoil the weather for our journey."

"I have given it up, my lord, and must wait for better times to take the matter up again," answered Reichenberg shortly.

The Duchess now appeared walking between the Abbot and Donatus, and ready to set out on her journey. The maids of honour followed, very ill-pleased, for they had been beyond measure dull, and the Countess Hildegard walked foremost with a broad-brimmed hat and trailing peacock feather on her pretty head in the place of the golden chaplet. She fixed her longing eyes immoveably on Donatus, but he did not venture to lift his gaze to her, and the fine Florentine rouge fell off her cheeks that turned pale with vexation.

The sundial indicated four o'clock in the afternoon; the Duke had had the horses saddled and the outriders had already started. The litter was led out and the Duchess got into it.

"Farewell, my Lord Abbot," she cried once more. "Farewell, Donatus. Bear in mind the words I spoke to you and do not fail to apply to me if ever you are in need of help."

Once more the Duke and the Abbot shook hands. The ladies put their gold-embroidered shoes into their stirrups and sprang, ill-satisfied, into their saddles; the whole cortège moved off as it came, amid the cracking of whips and barking of hounds, shouting, trampling, and hallooing, so that it could be heard long after it was out of sight.

The brethren drew a long breath of relief and went back to their daily duties, the convent servants swept the court-yard clean with large besoms; the scared cat sneaked suspiciously back over the granary roof and all was soon as quiet and peaceful as before.

But a shadow had fallen on the Abbot's soul--a secret anxiety which would never let him breathe again so freely as he did that morning--a vague feeling that all was not in fact exactly as it had been before.