"The summer's gone away, and autumn's come aright,
So now we will bid you farewell and goodnight.
Ye silent, snowy masters, good-bye then all together
And may your sleep be sound, until there's better weather!"
A sledge with the simple furniture and kitchen utensils, closed the train.
By degrees, herdsmen, cows and goats disappeared in the fir-wood below; their joyous songs and the merry tinkle of the cow-bells dying away in the distance; and then it became silent and lonely, as on that evening when Ekkehard had first knelt before the cross of the Wildkirchlein.
He entered his hermitage. During his solitary life in the mountains, he had learnt to understand, that solitude is only a school for life, and not life itself; and that he, who in this busy, active world will only be a passive spectator, wrapped up in himself, must in the end become a useless being.
"There's no help for it," said he, "I too must return to the valley! The snow is too cold, and I am too young to remain a hermit."
"Farewell then, mighty Säntis, thou good and trusty friend,
Farewell, ye bonny meadows, that healthy breezes sent!
I thank thee for thy blessings, oh holy solitude.
That took away my sorrow, heal'd my rebellious mood.
My heart now beateth calmly; my banner is unfurl'd,
And longing for new battles, I go into the world.
My youth was idle dreaming,--then came the darksome night,
But here, among the mountains, I woke to life and light."
He seized his knapsack, and in it put his scanty belongings. His most precious thing, the Waltari song, carefully wrapped up, was placed on the top. A smile played round his lips as he looked about on the few things which he left behind. On a stone stood the half empty ink-bottle, which he took and threw down the abyss, where it broke into many glittering fragments. The three-cornered harp, leaning against the wall outside, had something melancholy about it.
"Thou shalt remain here, and sweeten the lonely hours of him who comes after me," said he. "But mind not to give forth weak, sweetish sounds; else it were better that the water should drop down on thy strings from the crevices, so that they get rusty, and that the winds from the glaciers break them. I have sung my song!"
Therewith he hung the harp on a nail.
During his hermit's life, he had carved for himself a strong bow,--quiver and arrows being still there from Gottshalk's time. Thus he was well armed, and after hanging his wolf's skin mantle round his shoulders, he stood before his hermitage, casting a long, long look at the beautiful scenery around; at his beloved mountain peaks,--and then let his gaze glide down into the depth, where the seagreen Seealpsee peeped forth from between the dark fir-trees. It was all as beautiful as ever.