"That St. Peter will not one day give me a blow on the forehead with the blessed key of heaven, saying, 'Off with you, who have meddled with vain and useless philosophy!'"
Ekkehard did not reply to Moengal's outpourings. "I suppose," said he, "that you have often hard work with your ecclesiastical duties. Hardened hearts, heathendom, and heresy."
"'Tis not so bad, as they make it out to be," said the old man. "To be sure in the mouths of Bishops and Chamberlains and in the reports of the session and the synod, it seems terrifying enough, when they describe the heathenish idolatry, and threaten it with punishment. Here we have simply the old faith; tracing the Godhead, in tree and river and on mountain-heights. Everybody in this world must have his book of revelations, his apocalypse. Now the people hereabouts, have theirs in the open air; and really, one is capable of high and holy thoughts, when early in the morning, one stands in the water-reeds and sees the glorious sun arise. Nevertheless they come to me, on the Lord's day, and chaunt the mass; and if they were not fined so often, they would open their hearts to the Gospel, far more readily still. A bumper, confrater, to the fresh air!"
"Allow me," said Ekkehard, "I will drink to the health of Marcellus the teacher at the cloister-school, and the learned author of the Irish translation of Priscianus."
"Very well," laughed Moengal. "But with regard to the Irish translation, I am afraid that there is a hitch in the matter!"[[7]]
Ekkehard was very anxious to reach his destination, for anybody who is close to the end of his journey, is loth to tarry long. "The mountain stands fast enough," said Moengal, "that won't run away, you may be sure."
But Moengal's wine, and his ideas of fresh air, had nothing very tempting for him, who was about to go to a Duchess. So he rose from his seat.
"I will accompany you to the borders of my district," said the priest, "for to-day you may still walk by my side, in spite of my torn and faded garments; but when you are once settled down on yonder mountain, you will believe yourself transfigured, and that you have become a grand lord; and on the day that you will pass Radolfszell on horseback, and will behold old Moengal standing on the threshold, then perhaps, you will hardly deign to wave your hand to him,--that is the way of the world. When the 'heuerling' has become big, then it is called 'felchen,' and devours the small ones of its own race."
"It is not fair that you should speak thus," said Ekkehard, kissing his Irish brother.
Then they set out together, Moengal taking his lime-twigs with him, therewith to ensnare birds on his return. It was a long distance through the pine-wood, and no sound was stirring.