So he sat down and wrote. He wished to write a prayer for his enemy,--but then nobody can act contrary to his nature. Once more he glanced over the written pages. They were really too good! Then he penned the supplement. When the cock was announcing the dawn of day, this also was finished. Two dozen and a half of rattling monks' verses. That his thoughts, from the prayer for his antagonist, by degrees, diverged on himself and his glorious work, was but a natural transition for a man gifted with so much self-esteem.
With complacent unction, he wrote down the five last stanzas.
"Go then into the world, my book; and wherever, thou findest,
Shameful, slanderous tongues, which my glorious life are defiling,
Crush them without remorse, and humble them with thy just censure,
Until thy author one day, will enter the kingdom of Heaven,
Such as is promised to him, who has not buried his talents."
The parchment was rough, and resistant, so that he had to press the goose-quill, in order to make it receive the letters.
On the next day, Gunzo packed up his epistle in a tin box, and this again in a linen bag. A bondsman of the monastery, who had slain his brother, had taken a vow of a pilgrimage to the grave of the twelve Saints, with his right arm chained to his right hip; and to pray there until some heavenly sign of grace, was shown to him. His way led up the Rhine. So, Gunzo put the tin case round his neck, and a few weeks later, it was delivered safe and sound into the hands of the gate-keeper at Reichenau. Gunzo well knew his friends there. Therefore he had dedicated the libel to them.
Moengal the old parish-priest had also some business to transact in the monastery, on that day. In the stranger's room sat the Belgian pilgrim. They had given him some fish-soup, which he managed to eat with much difficulty; his chains clinking whenever he lifted his arm.
"Thou hadst better go home again, and marry the widow of the man thou hast slain," said Moengal. "That would be a far better expiation, than to make a fool's journey into the wide world, with your rattling chains."
The pilgrim shook his head silently, as if he thought that such chains might prove heavier still, than any which the blacksmith could forge.
Moengal asked to be announced to the Abbot. "He is very busy with some book he is reading," was the answer. Nevertheless he was ushered into his presence.
"Sit down, parish-priest," graciously said the Abbot. "I know that you are rather fond of salty and peppery things. Here's something for you."