The monk was roused, and shuddered, then ran to the boy, raised him, laid him back on his pillow and quieted him with caressing words:
"Don't be afraid, little one, I am here beside you." The child stared at him with wide-open eyes.
"Are you my father?"
"Yes, your spiritual father."
"My father, whom the Devil carried off to Hell? That's what my mother said. Leave me, leave me! I will not go with you. Your hand is fire, and your fingers burn me."
And yet the monk's hand was as cold as ice, as he stroked the child's silken hair. By the bed stood a silver pitcher with a small gold cup: the boy raised it to his lips and at once became quiet, as the terrifying visions vanished. He wound both arms around the neck of the monk and whispered to him, while still under the spell of the dream:
"Beautiful Knight, brave Knight! When you lift my mother into the saddle with you, you'll take me with you, won't you, my handsome Knight, my golden, diamond hero!" With that he fell into a gentle sleep.
"Just see what a good nurse you would make," said the Fool to his friend, "Sometimes I have to spend a good half-hour rubbing his feet and singing to him, and he is asleep at once. Have another mugful?"
"I don't like your wine."
"It's true you ought to drink yours, not mine." Father Peter saw with horror that the large book was open again. He thought it was magic.