Ekkehard sat perfectly motionless on the battlement, still holding the Greek maiden's hand clasped in his. His lips could not express the feelings of gratitude which pervaded his whole being. Suddenly he felt her cheek pressed against his, and a trembling kiss imprinted on his forehead, followed by a pearly tear. Softly, Praxedis then drew away her hand.
"Don't forget," said she, "that you still owe us a story. May God lead your steps back again to this place, some day, so that we may hear it from your own lips."
Ekkehard now let himself down. Waving one last farewell with his hand, he soon disappeared from her sight. The stillness of night was interrupted by a loud clatter and booming amongst the cliffs. A piece of rock had become loosened, and fell noisily down into the valley. Another followed somewhat slower, and on this Ekkehard was sitting; guiding it as a rider does his horse. So he went down the sloping precipice, through the black night,--farewell!
She crossed herself, and went back, smiling through her tears. The lay-brother was still fast asleep. Whilst crossing the courtyard, Praxedis spied a basket filled with ashes, which she seized, and softly stealing back into Ekkehard's dungeon, she poured out its contents in the middle of the room, as if this were all that were left of the prisoner's earthly remains.
"Why dost thou snore so heavily, most reverend brother?" said she hurrying away.
CHAPTER XXII.
[On the Wildkirchlein.]
And now, much beloved reader, we must bid thee to gird thy loins, take thy staff in hand, and follow us up into the mountains. From the lowlands of the Bodensee, our tale now takes us over to the Helvetian Alps. There, the Säntis stretches out grandly into the blue air,--when he does not prefer to don his cloud-cap,--smilingly looking down into the depths below, where the towns of men, shrivel up to the size of ant-hills. All around him, there is a company of fine, stalwart fellows, made of the same metal, and there, they put their bold heads together, and jestingly blow misty veils into each other's faces. Over their glaciers and ravines, a mighty roaring and rustling is heard at times; and that, which they whispered to each other, respecting the ways and doings of mankind, had already a somewhat contemptuous tinge, a thousand years ago,--and since then, it has not become much better I fear.
About ten days after the monks of the Reichenau had found nothing but a heap of ashes instead of their prisoner, in the castle-dungeon, and had debated a good deal, whether the Devil had burnt him up at midnight, or whether he had escaped,--a man was walking up the hills, along the white foaming Sitter, over luxuriant meadow-lands, interspersed with rocks.
He wore a mantle made of wolves' skins over his monkish garb; a leathern pouch at his side, and he carried a spear in his right hand. Often, he pushed the iron point into the ground, and leaned on the butt end, using the weapon thus, as a mountain-stick.