“Not even if I weave these purple asters and buttercups in a wreath, and set it on your head?”
He did not answer. Conscience told that he ought to rebuke her for tempting him from holy meditations. Why disobey the dictate? Yet he did. She made the wreath. He felt the little flowers upon his hair. He felt the touch of her soft hands upon his cheek; and her eyes looked straight into his.
“Smile!” she commanded, as she might address Harun; “do you hear me, smile!”
And Jerome—that saint adored through wide Thuringia—obeyed her. He smiled; he almost laughed; but—praised be Saint Simeon—grace was given just to shun that!
Once more the silvery bell in distant Eisenach knelled across the trees, calling to vespers. They knelt down to pray. Jerome had even forgotten to doff the flower crown. The maid prayed in loud whisper,—to Our Lady, to Agnes of Rome her patron saint,—then added something more softly, but he could hear it, “Holy Saint Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale, pray for me.”
Why did he not rebuke her with the thunders of Sinai? Why did his own prayer halt? Had Witch Martha taught the maid some guilty spell? Had the arch-fiend taken a young girl’s shape to overcome this hardened anchorite? But Jerome was silent, and Agnes arose from her knees.
“How long can I stay here?” spoke she, before she went into the hut to lie down.
“I shall try to send at once for Graf Ludwig.”
“Oh! he can know that I am safe; but it is lovely here! I do not want to go away. Harun, the brook, and the birds, and the talking trees, already I love them, but most of all,—you.”
Then he let her kiss him good night. He did not return the kiss; nevertheless he groaned inwardly, knowing he was making progress in sin. True was Master Vergil’s word, “Facilis descensus Averni!”