“The Abbess at Bamberg; and My Lord the Prince Bishop has written concerning you to Rome, to the Holy Father. Ah! saint you must be, that Baron Ulrich should thus dread you! I remember all now!”
Jerome did not answer. So his fame had spread to Rome! Well that Witch Martha had not told all this, or his visit to the Wartburg would have cost yet sorer mental wrestlings than it surely did! Agnes came very close to him, and still with both arms wide.
“Ah! my father Graf Ludwig is a strong, rich man, and will reward you,—but what do I say! Are you not a saint, and what would be gold or lands or vassals, when the dear God is giving you a great fief up in heaven! Yet I must do something.”
They stood eyeing one another—those twain—like two champions in the lists. Then the maid, reckless through youth and love, caused Jerome to be tempted of the Devil.
“Oh! it will not be so very wrong! even if angels come each night to kiss you! I must kiss you too.”
And so she did, putting her arms about him, and kissing his shaggy lips, and saying all the cooing tender things which spring from the heart of a child. Jerome did not thrust her back. He told himself that here was a last test sent from heaven, to see if he could endure the kiss of a maid, and never yearn for worldly joys thrust by. But he did not return the kiss, and she added, a little grieved:
“You are not angry with me?”
“No, daughter, no; but are you not hungry?”
“That I am.”
Jerome took from the wicker basket which he bore six speckled trout, his morning booty, cleaned dexterously, and soon, spitted on twigs, they hung above the fire. An instant later Harun burst through the thicket, in his mouth a partridge. But Agnes gave a little shriek, and made to fly.