"I have not sipped from the fount of the mystics," Benilo replied. "But often at the hour of dusk I seek the solitudes of the Palatine, which chime so strangely with my weird fancies. Here I may roam at will and without restraint,—here I may revel in the desolation, enlivened only now and then by the shrill tones of a shepherd's pipe; here I may ramble undisturbed among the ruins of antiquity, pondering over the ancient greatness of Rome, pondering over the mighty that have fallen.—I have just completed an Ode—all but the final stanzas. It is to greet Otto upon his return. The Archbishop of Cologne announced the welcome tidings of the king's convalescence—truly, a miracle of the saint!"
Eckhardt had listened attentively, then he remarked drily:
"Let each man take his own wisdom and see whither it will lead him. Otto is still pursuing a mocking phantom under the ruins of crumbled empires, but to find the bleached bones of some long-forgotten Cæsar! Truly, a worthy cause, in which to brave the danger of Alpine snows and avalanches—and the fever of the Maremmas."
"We both try to serve the King—each in his way," Benilo replied, contritely.
Eckhardt extended his hand.
"You are a poet and a philosopher. I am a soldier and a German.—I have wronged you in thought—forgive and forget!"
Benilo readily placed his hand in that of his companion. After a pause Eckhardt continued:
"My business in Rome touches neither emperor nor pope. Once, I too, wooed the fair Siren Rome. But the Siren proved a Vampire.—Rome is a enamel house.—Her caress is Death."
There was a brief silence.
"'Tis three years since last we strode these walks," Eckhardt spoke again. "What changes time has wrought!"