"Then go!" Steinrück exclaimed, harshly, almost thrusting the young man from him. "I will not keep you from your filial duty. Go to your mother!"
And, without even another look towards Raoul, he turned and left the room.
Saint Michael was one of the highest inhabited spots of the mountain-range. The quiet little Alpine village would have been utterly secluded had it not possessed a certain significance as a place of pilgrimage. The single dwellings lay scattered upon the pasture-lands and mountain-meadows, with the village church and the parsonage in their midst. Everything was contracted, plain, even shabby; the special church alone, which was the resort of pilgrims, and which stood upon a solitary height at a little distance from the village, had an imposing aspect. It had been founded by the Counts von Steinrück who had built this church, now old and gray, on the site of the ancient Saint Michael's chapel that had once stood here, and they had since often bestowed gifts upon it and had endowed it. Saint Michael was still the patron saint of the family to which he had so often given a first name. Its founder had been called Michael, and the name had been handed down from generation to generation ever since. Even the Protestant branch of the family, who had years previously left their ancestral home and settled in Northern Germany, preserved this ancient tradition, which, if it had no religious significance for them, still possessed an historic importance. Thus, the present head of the house was a Count Michael, and his son and grandson had been christened after him, although each bore another name by which he was commonly called. The interior of the church was not very remarkable; it showed the usual adornment of pictures and gayly-painted statues of the saint, often very imperfectly executed. But the high altar was an exception; it was very richly and artistically carved, and the two figures of angels on the sides of the steps with outspread wings and hands held aloft in prayer, as if guarding the sacred place, were exquisite examples of sculpture in wood. They with the altar were a gift from the Steinrücks, as were the three gothic windows in the altar recess, the costly stained glass of which glowed in gorgeous colour. The picture above the altar, however, a large painting, dated from a period of great simplicity in art. It had grown very dark with age, and was worn in spots, but its details were still distinctly to be discerned. Saint Michael, in a long blue robe and flowing mantle, the nimbus around his head, was distinguished as the warlike angel by a short coat of mail, but was otherwise of peaceful aspect. His sword of flame in his right hand and the scales in his left, he was enthroned upon a cloud, and at his feet crouched Satan, a horned monster with distorted features, and a body ending in a serpent's tail. Blood-red flames flashed upwards from the abyss, and a circle of cherubs looked down from above. The picture was entirely without artistic merit.
"And that is meant to betoken conflict and victory," said Hans Wehlau, as he stood gazing at the picture. "Saint Michael looks so solemnly comfortable on his cloud, and quite as if the Evil One below him were of no consequence; if Satan were wise he would snatch that sword just above the tip of his nose; that's no way to hold a sword! The saint ought to swoop from above like an angel, and seize and destroy Satan like a mighty blast, but he'd better not try flying in that long gown; and as for his wings, they are quite too small to support him."
"You show a godless want of respect in criticising pictures of saints," said Michael, who stood beside him. "You are your father's own son there."
"Very likely. Do you know I should like to paint a picture of that?--Saint Michael and the devil, the conflict of light with darkness. Something might be made of it if a fellow really set himself to work, and I have a model close at hand."
He turned suddenly, and looked his friend full in the face, in a way that provoked Michael to say, "What are you thinking of? I surely have----"
"Nothing angelic about you! No, most certainly not; and among the heavenly host, hovering in ether in white robes and palm branches, you would cut a comical figure. But to swoop down upon your enemy with a flaming sword and put him to rout like your holy namesake would suit you exactly. Of course you would have to be idealized, for you're far from handsome, Michael, but you have just what is needed for such a figure, especially when you are in a rage. At all events, you would make a much better archangel than that one up there."
"Nonsense!" said Michael, turning to go. "Moreover, you must come now, Hans, if you mean to walk back to Tannberg. It is four good leagues away."