Throwing back his coarse linen shirt, he showed his back to Ekkehard, on which with black cart-grease, in large capital letters the following inscription was written.
"Abbatiscellani, homines pagani,
Vani et insani, turgidi villani."
It was a monastic joke. Ekkehard could not restrain a laugh. "Don't mind it," said he, "and remember that it is thy own fault as thou hast sat too long over thy wine."
The goat-boy, however, was not to be appeased so easily.
"My black goats are far dearer to me, than all those younkers together," said he, buttoning his shirt again. "But if ever I catch such a milksop on the Ebenalp, I will write something on his back with unburnt ashes, that he will not forget as long as he lives; and if he is not satisfied with that, he may fly down the precipice, like an avalanche in spring."
Still grumbling, the boy went away.
Ekkehard then took up the harp, and sitting down at the foot of the crucifix before his cavern, he played a joyous air. It was a long time since he had last touched the chords, and it was an unspeakable delight for him, in that vast solitude, to give vent in low tuneful melodies, to the thoughts and feelings, that were oppressing his heart. And the fair lady Musica was Poetry's powerful ally; and the epic song of Waltari, which at first had approached him only in misty outlines, condensed itself into clearly defined figures; which again grouped themselves into warm, life-glowing pictures. Ekkehard closed his eyes to see them still better, and then he beheld the Huns approaching; a race of nimble, merry horsemen, with less repulsive faces than those against whom he had himself fought but a few months ago; and they carried off the royal offspring from Franconia and Aquitania, as hostages; Waltari and the fair Hiltgunde, the joy of Burgundy. And as he struck the chords with greater force, he also beheld King Attila himself, who was of tolerable mien, and well inclined to gaiety and the joys of the cup. And the royal children grew up at the Hunnic court, and when they were grown up, a feeling of home-sickness came over them, and they remembered how they had been betrothed to each other, from the days of their childhood.
Then, there arose a sounding and tuning of instruments, for the Huns were holding a great banquet; King Attila quaffed the mighty drinking-cup, and the others followed his example until they all slept the heavy sleep of drunkenness. Now he saw how the youthful hero of Aquitania, saddled his warhorse in a moon-lit night, and Hildegunde came and brought the Hunnic treasure. Then he lifted her up into the saddle, and away they rode out of Hunnic thraldom.
In the background, in fainter outlines, there still floated pictures of danger, and flight, and dreadful battles with the grasping King Gunther.
In large bold outlines, the whole story which he intended to glorify in a simple, heroic poem, stood out before his inward eye.