“A devil of a fellow!” whispered the count to the abbot. “Did you see the fair-haired lad’s throw? From what house does the young noble come?”
The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:
“From the smithy at Richtberg.”
“Does he belong to Adam?” laughed the other. “Zounds! I had a bitter hour in the confessional on his mother’s account. He has inherited the beautiful Florette’s hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father. With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I’ll call the boy.”
“Afterwards, afterwards,” replied the superior of the monastery in a tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction. “First tell the boys, what we have decided?”
Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.
As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman exclaimed:
“You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. What should you say, if I left him among you till Christmas? The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, you....”
But he had no time to finish the sentence. The pupils rushed upon him, shouting:
“Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!”