Dame Hadwig had come down, impelled by a strange impulse. Since her feelings for the monk had undergone a change, the image of her late husband recurred oftener to her inward mind. This was but natural. As the one receded into the background, the other must come forward again. The latter reading of Virgil had also its share in this, as there had been said so much about the memory of Sichæus.
The following day was the anniversary of Sir Burkhard's death. With his lance and shield by his side, the old duke lay buried in the chapel below. His tomb was covered by a rough stone-slab. A sarcophagus of grey sandstone stood near it, resting on small clumsy pillars, with ionic headpieces, which again rested on quaint ugly stone-animals. This stone coffin, Dame Hadwig had had made for herself. Every year, on the anniversary of the Duke's death, she had it carried up, filled with corn and fruits, which were distributed amongst the poor,--the means for living coming from the resting-place of the dead. It was an old pious custom.
To-day she intended to pray on her husband's grave. The reigning twilight concealed Ekkehard's kneeling figure. She did not see him.
Suddenly she started up from her kneeling pasture. A laugh, soft yet piercing struck her ear. She knew the voice well. Ekkehard had risen and recited the following words of the psalms:
"Hide me under the shadow of thy wings. From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. Arise, o Lord, disappoint them, cast them down." ...
He said it in an ominous tone. It was no more the voice of prayer.
Dame Hadwig bent down once more, beside the sarcophagus, on which she would gladly have placed another, to hide her from Ekkehard's view. She had no longer any wish to be alone with him. Her heart beat calmly now.
He went to the door, about to go, when suddenly he looked back once more. The everlasting lamp was softly rocking to and fro, over Dame Hadwig's head. Ekkehard's eye pierced the twilight this time, and with one bound,--quicker than that which in later days St. Bernard had made, when the madonna had beckoned to him, in the cathedral at Speier--he stood before the Duchess. He cast a long and penetrating look at her. Rising from the ground, and seizing the edge of the stone sarcophagus with her right hand, she confronted him, whilst the everlasting lamp over her head, was still gently swinging to and fro, on its silken cord.
"Thrice blessed are the dead, for one prays for them," said Ekkehard, interrupting the silence.
Dame Hadwig made no reply.