Yet hope does not entirely forsake even the most miserable. Then, he fancied again how through all this shame and misery, a piercing "stop!" was heard, and how she flew down with dishevelled locks, and in her rustling ducal mantle drove his tormentors away, as the Saviour drove out the usurers from the temple. And then, when all were gone, she presents him both her hand and lips to receive the kiss of reconciliation.--Long and ardently his phantasy dwelt on that beautiful possibility, which filled his heart with a soft consolation, and he spoke with the words of the Preacher: "As gold is purified from dross in the fire, so the heart of man is purified by sorrow."
He now heard a slight noise in the antichamber of his dungeon. A stone jug was put down. "You are to drink like a man," said a voice to the lay-brother on guard, "for on St. John's night, all sorts of unearthly visitors people the air and pass over our castle. So you must take care to strengthen your courage. There's another jug set ready, when this is finished."
It was Praxedis who had brought the wine. Ekkehard did not understand what she wanted. "Then she also is false," thought he. "God protect me!"
He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep. Some hours later he awoke. The wine had evidently been to the lay-brother's taste, for he was lustily singing a song in praise of the four goldsmiths, who had refused the making of heathenish idols at Rome; for which they had suffered martyrdom. With his heavy sandal-clad foot, he kept beating time on the stone-flags. Ekkehard heard that another jug of wine was brought in. The singing became always louder and more uproarious. Then he held a soliloquy; in which he spoke much about Italy and good fare, and Santa Agnese fuori i muri, until he suddenly ceased talking, whilst his snoring could be heard very plainly through the stone walls.
Everything was silent around. It was about midnight. Ekkehard lay in a half-slumbering state, when he heard the bolts of the door softly withdrawn. He remained lying where he was. A muffled figure came in, and a soft little hand was laid on the slumberer's forehead. He jumped up.
"Hush!" whispered Praxedis, for it was she.
When everybody had gone to rest, Praxedis had kept awake. "The bad cellarer shall not have the satisfaction of punishing our poor melancholy teacher," she had said to herself; and woman's cunning always finds some way and means to accomplish its schemes. Wrapping herself up in a grey cloak, she had stolen down on tip-toe. No special artifices were necessary, for the lay-brother was sleeping the sleep of the just. If it had been otherwise, the Greek would have frightened him by some ghost-trickery. That would have been her plan.
"You must fly!" said she to Ekkehard. "They mean to do their worst to you."
"I know it," replied he sadly.
"Come then."