... His prayers were ended now. Wistfully he gazed at the entrance of the cavern, waiting for Gottshalk the hermit's coming out to welcome the visitor. But nobody appeared; the cavern was empty.
Sancta Anastasia ignosce raptori! Holy Anastasia, pardon thy ravisher! was written with juice from Alpine herbs on the bright-coloured rock. A stone trough caught up the water which came trickling through the crevices. It was so full that the water ran over.
Ekkehard entered the cell. Some earthen dishes stood beside an old stone-flag, which probably had served as a hearth. In a corner there lay a coarse fishing-net, as well as a hammer and spade; a rusty hatchet and a quantity of cut pine-logs.
On some wooden boards was a sort of couch, consisting of straw and dry leaves, which looked rotten and decayed. Two rats, frightened by Ekkehard's entrance, ran to hide in a crevice.
"Gottshalk," cried Ekkehard, using his hand like a speaking-trumpet. Then he uttered a sort of shout; such as is customary amongst the mountaineers in those parts; but nobody answered. In a jug, the milk it had once contained, had become a crusty substance. Mournfully Ekkehard stepped out again on the narrow strip of ground, which separated the cavern from the precipice.
Gazing over to the left, he could see a small bit of the blue Bodensee, coming out behind the mountains. All the magnificence of the Alpine world, however, could not banish a feeling of unutterable woe from his heart. Alone and God-forsaken he stood there on the solitary height. He strained his faculty of hearing to the utmost, in the hope of catching the sound of a human voice, but the low and monotonous moaning of the wind in the pine-wood below, was all that he heard.
His eyes became moist.
It was getting late. What now?... The cravings of hunger, drew off his attention for the moment. He still had provisions for three days with him. So he sat down before the cavern and took his evening meal; moistening his bread with the tears he could not restrain.
His mountain threw long, purple shadows on the opposite rocks, whose peaks only were still glowing in the sunshine.
"As long as the cross stands on yonder rock, I shall not be entirely forsaken," said he. He then collected some grass that grew outside and prepared himself a new couch, in the place of the old one. The cool evening air began to be felt. So he wrapped himself up in Moengal's mantle and lay down. Sleep is the best cure for the sufferings of youth, and in spite of heartache and loneliness, it soon closed Ekkehard's eyelids.