It was a stormy night. "You cannot go out by the doorway, the bridge is drawn up," said Praxedis; "but you can get down between the rocks on the eastern side. Our shepherd boy has tried that path before."

They entered the little garden. A gust of wind went roaring through the branches of the maple-tree. Ekkehard scarcely knew what was happening to him.

He mounted the battlement. Steep and rugged fell the klinkstone precipices; a dark abyss yawned before him; black clouds were chasing each other across the dusky sky,- weird, uncouth shapes, as if two bears were pursuing a winged dragon. Soon the fantastic forms melted together; the wind whipped them onward toward the Bodensee, that glittered faintly in the distance. Indistinctly outlined lay the landscape.

"Blessings on your way!" said Praxedis.

Ekkehard sat motionless on the battlement; he still held the Greek girl's hand clasped in his. A mingled feeling of gratitude and melancholy surged through his storm-tossed brain. Then her cheek pressed against his, and a kiss trembled on his lips; he felt a pearly tear. Gently Praxedis drew away her hand.

"Don't forget," said she, "that you still owe us a story. May God lead your steps back again to this place some day, so that we may hear it from your own lips."

Ekkehard now let himself down. He waved his hand once more, then disappeared from her sight. The stillness of night was interrupted by a rattling and clattering down the cliff. The Greek girl peered down into the depths. A piece of rock had become loosened, and fell noisily down into the valley. Another followed somewhat slower; and on this Ekkehard was sitting, guiding it as a rider does his horse. So he went down the steep precipice into the blackness of the night.

Farewell!

She crossed herself and went back, smiling in spite of all her sadness. The lay brother was still fast asleep. As she crossed the court-yard, Praxedis spied a basket filled with ashes, which she seized; and softly stealing back into Ekkehard's dungeon, she poured out its contents in the middle of the room, as if this were all that was left of the prisoner's earthly remains.

"Why dost thou snore so heavily, most reverend brother?" she asked; and hurried away.

DECLARATION AND DEPARTURE

From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen ›

THIS morning meal the baron

A

Sat, deep poring o'er a letter

Which the day before had reached him.

From afar a post had ridden,

From the Danube, deep in Suabia,

Where the baby river ripples

Gleeful through a narrow valley.
Lofty crags jut sharply o'er it,
And its limpid waters mirror

Clear and bright their rugged outlines,
And the tender green of beech-woods.
Thence the messenger had ridden.

This the purport of the letter:

My old comrade, do you ever

Think of Hans von Wildenstein?

Down the Rhine and down the Danube

Many drops of clearest water

Must have run to reach the ocean,

Since we lay beside our watch-fires,

In our last campaign together.
And I mark it by my youngster,
Who has grown a lusty fellow,
And his years count four-and-twenty.
First, as page, he went to Stuttgart,
To the duke; and then to college

To old Tübingen I sent him.
If I reckon by the money
He has squandered, it is certain
He must be a mighty scholar.
Now by me at home he tarries,
Chasing deer and hares and foxes;
And when other sport is lacking,
Chasing pretty peasant-maidens:
And 'tis time that he were broken
To the wholesome yoke of marriage.
Now, methinks, you have a daughter
Who a fitting bride would make him.
'Twixt old comrades, such as we are,
Many words are surely needless;
So, Sir Baron, I would ask you

Would it please you if my Damian
To your castle rode a-wooing,
Rode a-wooing to the Rhineland?
Send me speedy answer.-Greetings
From old Hans von Wildenstein.

Postscript. Do you still remember
That great fray we fought at Augsburg
With the horsemen of Bavaria ?

And the rage of yon rich miser
And his most ungracious lady?
Why, 'tis two-and-thirty years since!"

Toilsomely the baron labored
At his comrade's crabbed writing,
And a full half-hour he puzzled,
Ere he mastered all its import.

Laughing then he spake:-"These Suabians
Are in sooth most knowing devils!
They are lacking in refinement,
Somewhat coarse in grain and fibre,
Yet of wit and prudence plenty
In their rugged pates is garnered.
Many a brainless coxcomb's noddle
They could stock and never miss it.
And my valiant Hans manœuvres
Rarely, like a veteran statesman.

His poor, mortgaged, moldering owl's-nest
By the Danube would be bolstered
Bravely by a handsome dowry.

Yet the scheme deserves a hearing.
Far and wide throughout the kingdom
Are the Wildensteins respected,

Since with Kaiser Barbarossa

To the Holy Land they journeyed.
Let the varlet try his fortune!"

To the baron entered Werner.

Slow his gait and black his jerkin,
As on feast-days. Melancholy

Sat upon his pallid features.
Jestingly the other hailed him:-

"I was in the act of sending

Honest Anton out to seek you.

Pray you, mend your pen and write me,

As my trusty scribe, a letter,

Letter of most weighty import.

For a knight has written asking
Tidings of my lady daughter,
And he seeks her hand in marriage
For his son, the young Sir Damian.
Tell him, then, how Margaretha

Has grown tall and fair and stately.
Tell him - but you need no prompting:

Fancy you a painter-paint him,
Black on white, her living image,
Fairly, and forget no detail.
Say, if 'tis the youngster's pleasure,
I shall make no opposition

If he saddle and ride hither."
"If he saddle and ride hither- »
Spake young Werner, as if dreaming
To himself; and somewhat sharply
Quoth the baron, "But what ails you
That you wear a face as lengthy
As a Calvinistic preacher's
On Good Friday? Has the fever
Once more taken hold upon you?"

"For my

daughter's hand in marriage ?»

Gasped the baron, sore bewildered

In his turn; and wryly twitching
Worked his mouth, as his who playeth
On a Jew's-harp. Through his left foot
Shot a bitter throb of anguish.
"My young friend, the fever blazes
In your brain-pan like a furnace.

Go, I rede you, to the garden,

Where there plays a shady fountain.

If you dip your head beneath it

Thrice, the fever straight will vanish."

"Noble sir," rejoined young Werner,

"Spare your gibes. You may require them, Peradventure, when the wooer

Out of Suabia rideth hither.