The black-martin, which lived in a crevice of the same rock that sheltered him, confidingly flew down on his shoulder and pecked his cheek,--then spreading its black and red plumage it flew up into the blue air, as if it wanted to tell the Säntis that the hermit was going away.
Firmly setting the point of his spear into the ground, he walked down the well-accustomed giddy path. When he had reached the Aesher, he stopped once more, and waving his hand to his hermitage, he uttered a long "Jodler" that reverberated from the Kamor and Hohen-Kasten to the Maarwiese, until it was lost in the distant clefts of the mountains.
"He can do it well," said a returning herdsman in the valley to one of his comrades.
"Almost like a goat-boy!" said the other, as Ekkehard was just disappearing behind a rocky wall.
The rising sun had already cast his rays for some time on the Wildkirchlein, which, like a deserted nest, seemed to look mournfully into the valley below.
At the Bodensee, people prepared for the coming vintage. One fine evening, Dame Hadwig sat in her garden, with the faithful Praxedis by her side. The Greek had unpleasant times now. Her mistress was out of tune, discontented and reserved. To-day likewise she could not entice her into a conversation. It was a day of evil remembrances.
"To-day it is just a year," Praxedis began, with seeming indifference, "that we sailed over the Bodensee, and paid a visit to St. Gallus."
The Duchess made no reply. "A great deal has happened since then," Praxedis was going to add, but the words died on her lips.
"And have you heard, gracious mistress, what people are saying of Ekkehard?" resumed she, after a considerable pause.
Dame Hadwig looked up. Her mouth was working.