"Then I shall also choose St. Martin to become my patron-saint," exclaimed Praxedis. But this had not been the drift of Wiborad's praises. She threw a contemptuous half jealous look on the rosy cheeks of the young girl. "The Lord pardon thee, thy presumption!" cried she with folded hands "dost thou believe that this can be done with a flippant word and smooth face? Indeed! Many long years have I striven and fasted until my face became wrinkled and furrowed,--and he did not favour me even with one single look! He is a high and mighty Saint and a valiant soldier of the Lord, who only looks on long tried champions."
"He will not rudely shut his ears against my prayers," exclaimed Praxedis.
"But thou shalt not pray to him," cried Wiborad angrily. "What has he to do with thee? For such as thou art, there are other patron-saints. I will name thee one. Choose thou the pious Father Pachomius for thyself."
"Him, I don't know," said Praxedis.
"Bad enough, and it is high time for you to make his acquaintance. He was a venerable hermit who lived in the Theban desert, nourishing himself with wild roots and locusts. He was so pious that he heard during his lifetime, the harmony of the spheres and planets and often said: 'If all human beings would hear, what has blessed my ears, they would forsake house and land; and he who had put on the right shoe, would leave the left one behind, and hasten hither.' Now in the town of Alexandria there was a maid, whose name was Thaïs, and nobody could tell, which was greater, her beauty or her frivolity. Then Pachomius said unto himself 'Such a woman is a plague for the whole Egyptian land,' and after cutting his beard and anointing himself he mounted a crocodile, which by prayer he had made subservient to himself, and on its scaly back was carried down the Nile; and then he went to Thaïs, as if he also were an admirer of hers. His big stick, which was a palmtree, he had taken with him, and he managed to shake the heart of the sinner so, as to make her burn her silken robes, as well as her jewels, and she followed Pachomius, as a lamb does the shepherd. Then he shut her up in a rocky grave, leaving only a tiny window in it; instructed her in prayer, and after five years her purification was completed, and four angels carried her soul up to heaven."
This story did not impress Praxedis very favourably.
"The old hermit with his rough beard and bitter lips is not good enough for her," she thought, "and therefore I am to take him for myself," but she did not dare to give utterance to these thoughts.
At this moment the curfew bell began to ring in the monastery, and at this signal the recluse stepped back into her chamber and closed her shutter. The hollow sound of psalm-chanting was heard again, accompanied by the noise of falling strokes. She was flagellating herself.
Meanwhile Romeias had begun his sport in the distant wood, and thrown his spear--but he had mistaken the trunk of a felled oak for a young deer. Angrily he pulled out his weapon from the tenacious wood;--it was the first time in his life, that such a thing had happened to him.
Before Wiborad's cell total silence reigned for a considerable length of time, and when her voice was again heard, it was quite altered; the tones being fuller and vibrating with passion: "Come down unto me, holy Martin; valiant champion of God; thou consolation of my solitude; thou light in my darkness. Descend unto me, for my soul is ready to receive thee and my eyes are thirsting for thee."--