Then Sindolt said to the stout chamberlain Master Spazzo: "What a pity that you have not become a mountain-rat, that would have been a pleasant and graceful occupation for you."
When the Abbot had proceeded a few paces, the evil Sindolt began to give a new sort of explanation: "That is our Tutilo," said he, pointing to a bear, which had just thrown down one of its companions,--"that the blind Thieto,"--pointing to the wild goat, and he was just about to honour the Abbot with some flattering comparison, when the Duchess interrupted him by saying: "As you are so clever in finding similes, will you find one for me also?"
Sindolt became embarrassed. Luckily his eye now fell on a beautiful silver-pheasant, which was in the midst of a troop of cranes, basking in the sunshine which lighted up its pearly grey feathers.
"There," said Sindolt.
But the Duchess turned round to Ekkehard, who gazed dreamily at the bustle and life before him.
"What do you think of it?" asked she.
He started up. "Oh, mistress!" said he in soft tones, "who is so audacious as to compare you to anything that flies or crawls?"
"But if we desire it?"
"Then I only know of one bird," said Ekkehard. "We have not got it, nor has anyone; in star-lit midnights it flies high over our heads, brushing the sky with its wings. The bird's name is Caradrion, and when its wings touch the earth a sick man is healed. Then the bird, inclining towards the man, opens its beak over his mouth, and taking the man's sickness unto itself rises up to the sun, and purifies itself in the eternal light; and the man is saved."
The Abbot's return put a stop to further similes. One of the serving brothers was sitting on an apple-tree, plucking the apples, and putting them into baskets. When the Duchess approached the tree, he was going to descend, but she made him a sign to stop where he was.