"Madman that I was," he muttered at last, "to think that such a tale was fit for mortal ears."
Then he turned to the monk.
"Have you no solace to give to me, no light upon the dark path, I am about to enter upon,—the life of the cloister, where I shall end my days?"
There was a long pause. Surprise seemed to have struck the monk dumb. Eckhardt's heart beat stormily in anticipation of the anchorite's reply.
"But," a voice sounded from the gloom, "have you the patience, the humility, which it behooves the recluse to possess, and without which all prayers and penances are in vain?"
"Show me how I can humble myself more, than at this hour, when I renounce a life of glory, ambition and command. All I want is peace,—that peace which has forsaken me since her death!"
His last words died in a groan.
"Peace," repeated the monk. "You seek peace in the seclusion of the cloister, in holy devotions. I thought Eckhardt of too stern a mould, to be goaded and turned from his duty by a mere whim, a pale phantom."
A long silence ensued.
"Father," said the Margrave at last, speaking in a low and broken voice, "I have done no act of wrong. I will do no act of wrong, while I have control over myself. But the thought of the dead haunts me night and day. Otto has no further need of me. Rome is pacified. The life at court is irksome to me. The king loves to surround himself with perfumed popinjays, discarding the time-honoured customs of our Northland for the intricate polity of the East.—There is no place for Eckhardt in that sphere of mummery."