“I should know him,” said Friedel, enthusiastically, “or, at least, he would know my mother’s son in me; and, could I no otherwise ransom him, I would ply the oar in his stead.”
“A fine exchange for my mother and me,” gloomily laughed Ebbo, “to lose thee, my sublimated self, for a rude, savage lord, who would straightway undo all our work, and rate and misuse our sweet mother for being more civilized than himself.”
“Shame, Ebbo!” cried Friedel, “or art thou but in jest?”
“So far in jest that thou wilt never go, puissant Sir Hildebert,” returned Ebbo, drawing him closer. “Thou wilt learn—as I also trust to do—in what nameless hole the serpent hid his remains. Then shall they be duly coffined and blazoned. All the monks in the cloisters for twenty miles round shall sing requiems, and thou and I will walk bareheaded, with candles in our hands, by the bier, till we rest him in the Blessed Friedmund’s chapel; and there Lucas Handlein shall carve his tomb, and thou shalt sit for the likeness.”
“So may it end,” said Friedel, “but either I will know him dead, or endeavour somewhat in his behalf. And that the need is real, as well as the purpose blessed, I have become the more certain, for, Ebbo, as I rose to descend the hill, I saw on the cloud our patron’s very form—I saw myself kneel before him and receive his blessing.”
Ebbo burst out laughing. “Now know I that it is indeed as saith Schleiermacher,” he said, “and that these phantoms of the Blessed Friedmund are but shadows cast by the sun on the vapours of the ravine. See, Friedel, I had gone to seek thee at the chapel, and meeting Father Norbert, I bent my knee, that I might take his farewell blessing. I had the substance, thou the shadow, thou dreamer!”
Friedel was as much mortified for the moment as his gentle nature could be. Then he resumed his sweet smile, saying, “Be it so! I have oft read that men are too prone to take visions and special providences to themselves, and now I have proved the truth of the saying.”
“And,” said Ebbo, “thou seest thy purpose is as baseless as thy vision?”
“No, Ebbo. It grieves me to differ from thee, but my resolve is older than the fancy, and may not be shaken because I was vain enough to believe that the Blessed Friedmund could stoop to bless me.”
“Ha!” shouted Ebbo, glad to see an object on which to vent his secret annoyance. “Who goes there, skulking round the rocks? Here, rogue, what art after here?”