Burkhard, the cloister-pupil, ran up and down, wailing and wringing his hands. He could not understand the fate which had befallen his uncle. The servants were all putting their heads together, eagerly whispering, and gossiping, as if the hundred-tongued Rumour had been sitting on the roof, spreading her falsehoods about. "He tried to murder the Duchess," said one. "He has practised the Devil's own arts, with that big book of his," said another. "To-day is St. John's day, when the Devil has no power, and so he could not help him."
At the well in the courtyard, Rudimann the cellarer was standing, letting the clear water flow over his head. Ekkehard had given him a sharp cut, out of which the dark blood was slowly trickling down into the water.
Whilst he was thus occupied, Praxedis came down, looking pale and depressed. She was the only being who had sincere, heartfelt pity, for the prisoner. On seeing the cellarer, she ran into the garden, tore up a blue cornflower with the roots, and then bringing it to him, said: "Take that into your right hand until it gets warm, and then the bleeding will cease. Or, shall I fetch you some linen to dress the wound?"
The cellarer shook his head.
"It will stop, in its own time," said he. '"Tis not the first time that I have been bled. Keep your cornflowers for yourself."
But Praxedis was anxious to conciliate Ekkehard's enemy. So she fetched some linen, upon which he allowed his wound to be dressed, without however, offering any thanks for it.
"Are you not going to let Ekkehard out to-day?" asked she.
"To-day?" Rudimann repeated sneeringly. "Do you feel inclined to weave a garland for the standard-bearer of Antichrist? the leading horse of Satan's car, whom you have petted and spoiled up here, as if he were the darling son Benjamin himself? Today indeed! When a month is passed you may put the question again, over there," pointing towards the Helvetian mountains.
Praxedis was frightened. "What then do you intend to do with him?"
"That which is right," replied Rudimann with an evil laugh. "Wantonness, deeds of violence, disobedience, haughtiness, sacrilege, blasphemy,--there are scarcely names enough for all his nefarious acts; but thank God, there are yet means for their expiation!" He made a motion with his hand like that of flogging.--"Ah yes, plenty of means of expiation, gentle mistress! We are going to write the catalogue of his sins on his back."