Cappan had made an effort to sit decently and upright by the side of his spouse; but in the depth of his mind, he was revolving the thought, whether after some time, he could not resume his old custom, of lying down during meal-times.
During the long intervals between the different dishes,--for though the repast had begun at midday, it was to last until sunset,--the Hun rested his limbs, which had been tortured by the continual sitting.
Welcomed by the sounds of the rustic musical band, the Duchess with her train, now approached, on horseback. Stopping her palfrey, she looked down into the crowd of merry-makers, amongst which the new Paul was shewing off his wild antics. The music, not being sufficient for him, he shouted and whistled his own time, wheeling his tall spouse about, in a labyrinthine dance. It looked like a walking tower, dancing with a wild cat; the slow one, dancing with the swift; now together, then apart; now breast to breast, then back to back. Sometimes he would suddenly thrust his partner away, and beating his wooden shoes together in the air, he made seven capers, one always higher than the other; and finally dropping on his knees before Dame Hadwig, he bowed his head as if he would kiss the dust, which her horse's hoofs had touched. This was the expression of his gratitude.
His Hegau cousins, looking on at this wonderful dancing, conceived the laudable desire of emulation, and perhaps later, they had themselves instructed in the art; for one still hears a legendary account of the "seven capers," or the Hunnic "hop" in those parts, which as a variation from the customary monotonous Suabian round-dances, had since those days, become the crowning feat of all festivals.
"Where is Ekkehard?" asked the Duchess, who after getting down from her palfrey, had walked through the ranks of her subjects. Praxedis pointed over to some shady spot, where a gigantic pine-tree lifted its dark-green top towards the sky. On its knotty, rugged roots, the monk was sitting. The loud merriment of the crowd of people oppressed his heart, though he could not tell why. So he had gone aside, and was dreamily gazing at the faint distant outlines of the Alps, rising over the woody hills.
It was one of those soft, balmy evenings, such as Sir Burkhart of Hohenvels enjoyed in later times from his huge tower on the lake; "when the air is tempered and mixed up with sun-fire." The distance was shrouded in a soft glowing haze. He, who has ever looked down from those quiet mountain-tops, when on a bright, radiant day, the sun is slowly sinking down, arrayed in all the splendour of his royal robes; when heaven and earth are palpitating with warmth and light, whilst dark purple shadows, fill up the valleys, and a margin-glory, like liquid gold illumines the snowy alpine peaks,--he will not easily forget that aspect; and perchance when sitting later, within his dusky walls, the memory of it will rise in his heart, as soft and bewitchingly sweet, as a song uttered in the melting tones of the South.
Ekkehard was sitting there, with a serious expression on his countenance; his head supported by his right hand.
"He is no longer as he used to be," said Dame Hadwig to the Greek maid.
"He is no longer, as he used to be," thoughtlessly repeated Praxedis, for she was intently gazing on the women of the Hegau, in their holiday-garments; and whilst scrutinizing those high, stiff bodices; and tun-like, starched skirts, she wondered whether the genius of good taste, had left that land for ever in despair,--or whether his foot had never entered it.
Dame Hadwig now approached Ekkehard. He started up from his mossy seat, as if he saw a ghost.