But Ekkehard preferred at that time to throw pebbles, making them skim the water, and he only took in, half the meaning of that which his friend had said. He was a devoted cloister-pupil, and his thoughts were as yet contented with the tasks which fell to his daily share. Time separated the two friends, and Conrad had to fly from the cloister-school, because he had once said that the logic of Aristotle was mere straw. So he had gone out into the wide world, nobody knew whither; and Ekkehard came to St. Gall pursuing his studies assiduously. There, he had grown into a learned and sensible young man, deemed fit to become a professor; and he sometimes thought of Conrad of Alzey with something akin to pity.
But a good seed-corn may for a long time lie hidden in a human heart, and yet at last germinate and bud, like the wheat from Egypt's mummy-graves.
That Ekkehard now delighted in dwelling on these recollections, was a proof that he had undergone a considerable change. And this was well. The caprices of the Duchess, and the unconscious grace of Praxedis, had refined his shy and awkward manners. The time of stirring excitement he had gone through during the invasion of the Huns, had given a bolder flight to his aspirations and had taught him to despise the paltry intrigues of petty ambition. Then, his heart received a mortal wound, which had to be struggled with and overcome; and so, the cloister-scholar, in spite of cowl and tonsure, had arrived at a happy state of transition, in which the monk was about to become a poet, and walked about like a serpent which has assumed a new covering, and only watches for an opportunity to strip off its shabby old coat against some hedge or tree.
Daily and hourly, when contemplating the ever-beautiful peaks of his mountains, and breathing the pure, fragrant Alpine air, it appeared a constant riddle to him, how he could ever have thought to find happiness in reading and poring over yellow parchment-leaves, and how he then almost lost his reason on account of a proud woman. "Let all perish which has not strength to live," said he to himself, "and build up a new world for thyself; but build it inwardly; large, proud and wide,--and let the dead Past bury its dead!"
He was already walking about again quite cheerfully in his hermitage, when one evening after he had rung the vesper-bell, the master of the Ebenalp came to him, carrying something carefully in a handkerchief. "God's blessing be with you, mountain-brother," said he. "Well, you have had a good shaking-fit, and I came to bring you something as an after-cure. But I see that your cheeks are red and your eyes bright, so it has become unnecessary."
He opened his handkerchief, and displayed a lively ant-hill,--old and young ants with a quantity of dry fir-leaves. He shook the industrious little creatures down the hill-side.
"If you had not been well, you would have had to sleep on that to-night," said he with a laugh. "That takes away the last trace of fever!"
"The illness is past," said Ekkehard, "Many thanks for the medicine!"
"You had better provide yourself against the cold, however," said the herdsman, "for a black cloud is hanging over the Brülltobel, and the toads are coming out of their holes; a sure sign that the weather is about to change."
On the next morning all the peaks shone out in a dazzling white cover. A great deal of snow had fallen. Yet it was still much too early for the beginning of winter. The sun rose brightly, and tormented the snow with his rays, so as to make it almost repent having fallen.