"Then you cannot refuse to your sovereign prince what you grant to your liege," said the knight. "I am Meinhard the Second of Gortz and Tyrol and the d.u.c.h.ess is following me immediately."
The Abbot bowed to the very ground in pleasure and respect, "Happy is the day that procures us the honour of seeing your gracious countenance! Hail to Duke Meinhard!"
"Hail to Duke Meinhard! our powerful protector. Hail!" rang from all lips, and even Wyso came hobbling out again, panting and perspiring, and made his way with unwonted courage among the horses to testify his respect for the powerful Duke.
"Now the ducal horses might be welcome to eat all the apricots and pears, and the dogs to trample all the vegetables and flowers--this is quite another matter!"
"Make way--make way for the d.u.c.h.ess and her suite!" was now the cry of the marshal at the gate, and all made way for the litters of the d.u.c.h.ess and her ladies.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Women in the cloister! And we cannot keep them out, for our wise rule allows princesses to enter!" lamented Wyso slily and winking with secret delight at Correntian, who was standing near him. "What do you say to such doings, Correntian?"
The Duke and the Abbot went to meet the procession and receive the n.o.ble lady. Foremost of all on a quiet horse rode the marshal, then followed the panting and sweating beasts that bore the d.u.c.h.ess" litter, each walking between two poles which hung from their backs from strong girths; one went in front and the other behind, each guided by a driver with a large cracking whip. Between them swung the tall palanquin with light rustling curtains of red silk, blown about by the hot south-wind, and inside it, wearily stretched out on soft crimson cushions embroidered with gold, lay a pale, delicate woman, closely veiled and so simply dressed that it was visible at the first glance that her mind was not set on the royal splendour with which her proud husband loved to surround her. But the ladies of her suite looked all the more haughty as they followed her on horseback. They rode behind the litter between the rows of monks, laughing and chattering, swaying their slender bodies carelessly on their broad-backed palfreys and looking curiously at the shorn heads around them, from under their broad hats, adorned with peac.o.c.k feathers. Suddenly one of them drew her embroidered rein and whispered to her neighbour, "Look, there is a handsome one!" And all eyes followed hers to where Donatus was standing with downcast lids, grave and silent.
"Forwards!" cried the marshal, for a troop of riders were still behind as an escort for the ladies.
The Abbot had taken the leading-rein of the foremost horse in the litter and guided it with his own hand through the court to the inner gateway; here he paused and went up to the lady, "May it please you, n.o.ble lady," he said, "to alight and to put up with the accommodation of our humble roof."
At a sign from the marshal the squires and pages sprang forward. In an instant the horses were unharnessed, the litter let down on to the ground, the ladies lifted from their horses and litter and horses all led on one side. The d.u.c.h.ess, a lady of middle age and apparently afflicted by severe illness, bowed her head humbly before the Abbot.
"Give me your blessing, reverend Father," she said softly.
The Abbot blessed her and led her with her ladies into the cool refectory.
"Will you condescend to rest and cool yourself here for a time, n.o.ble Lady?" he said, "while I see to providing some farther refreshment."
He conducted the men of the party into a large dining hall which he himself had built and which was only just finished; here the brother-cellarer had set large goblets which were all dewy outside from the coolness of the wine they contained; that was a drink after the frightful heat! hardly could the thirsty lips part with the bowl till the last drop was drained; there were rich cheese and fragrant rolls too, to stay their hunger till the noon-day meal was ready. For the Abbot would fain do everything that the resources of the house admitted, and its resources were many, for it had long been in a flourishing condition, and the labours and tillage of the monks had been blessed. He sent new milk to the ladies and little wheaten cakes with limpid golden honey, as might beseem fastidious ladies" lips.
Thus he cared paternally and tenderly for his guests, rejoicing at the evident satisfaction with which they enjoyed it. Even the grooms in the court-yard had heavy loads of bread and mead carried out to them, and soon there was such riot and jubilee as if they had entered into the land of Canaan. Nay the thoughtful host had remembered even the dogs; they stood in a circle round a great bowl of cool b.u.t.ter-milk and were lapping it with their hot tongues. Through the railings of the underground windows there rose up a mighty steam and reek of roast and stewed. The choicest fowls and fat joints of hastily slaughtered mutton sputtered on the rarely-used spits, for such a dainty meal was never prepared but for strangers, and the unusual savour of meat pleasantly tickled brother Wyso"s nostrils. He could not omit this opportunity of saying spitefully to Correntian,
"Hey! what is that smell?"
"The devil"s roast!" said Correntian with a burst of anger, for the whole occurrence was an abomination to him, and he could hardly control his indignation. He muttered the words of the prophet Isaiah, chap. 22: "_Et ecce gaudium et laet.i.tia, occidere vitulos et jugulare arietes, comedere carnes et bibere vinum_--they slaughter oxen, they slay sheep, eating flesh, and drinking wine. _Comedamus et libamus, cras enim moriemur_--let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."
"Come, come," said Wyso chuckling. "It is not so bad as all that--we shall not die quite so soon as to-morrow, unless we may enjoy ourselves too freely to-day, and eat and drink too much--"
"_Et revelata est in auribus meis vox Domini: si dimittetur iniquitas haec vobis, donec moriamini_--and in my ears was the voice of the Lord of Sabaoth: Verily this sin shall not be forgiven thee till thou die!"
continued Correntian, but Wyso was not to be silenced.
"If the reverend Abbot grants us a dispensation, G.o.d too will forgive us the sin. Not that which goes into the mouth defiles the man, but that which proceeds out of the mouth. Do you understand? Well, why are you staring at me like that with your martyr"s face?" he added in a tone of good humoured scolding to Donatus. "When I was your age, would I have girded my hungry stomach with rough haircloth, that I might ride lighter on the road to Heaven? Good Lord! they would have to haul me up with cords now, if I had to take all my earthly ballast up with me. But as we must leave to the earth all that is of the earth, earthy, it is all the same what we stuff ourselves with--that is my view."
Meanwhile the guests within had satisfied their first hunger and thirst, and Duke Meinhard had informed the Abbot of the reason of his visit. His wife Elizabeth of Bavaria had so long felt herself ailing and feeble, that before her end came she would fain do some good deed for the welfare of her soul, and with this end in view she had founded a House of G.o.d at Stams in the Ober-Innthal. The building was now far advanced, and she had made up her mind to undertake a journey, in order to inspect all the most distinguished foundations in the country, and thus to inform herself as to what arrangement of the building, what system and preparatory dispositions would be most advantageous to the newly founded religious house. When the n.o.ble lady was rested it was her wish that the Abbot might conduct her round the monastery, so that she might see everything for herself.
The Abbot declared himself most ready to aid in so Christian a work, and he designated Donatus, as his favourite and most promising disciple, for the high honour of conducting the d.u.c.h.ess, as the Duke took possession of the Abbot himself, to confer in manly fashion about the neighbourhood, the customs of the inhabitants of Vintschgau, and all sorts of things ecclesiastical and temporal.
Donatus coloured with surprise when the Abbot informed him of his good-fortune; nay his imploring look seemed to convey a remonstrance; but that was impossible, the brethren of the order might never say "no."
Next to the Duke sat a broad-shouldered, dark man, sunk in sullen, brooding silence. His hair was grey, but before its time, his brow morosely wrinkled and marked down the middle with a strong angry vein.
He took no part in the conversation, and from the moment when he had taken his place he never once had moved his eyes from the end of the table where Donatus was sitting.
"Well, Count," said the Duke, pushing him to rouse him, and nodding to him over his gla.s.s. "You are staring fixedly at that one spot; does that young fellow remind you of your own youth?"
"It is strange, but do not you think that the boy is like me?" muttered the Count.
"He certainly is, to a hair; and if you had a son I could believe it was he. Only you never looked as gentle and sweet as he does; do not you agree with me, Count Reichenberg?"
"Count Reichenberg!" For an instant every face turned pale as the monks heard that name; Donatus only remained quite unconcerned, for he knew not as yet who and what Count Reichenberg was to him.
"By my soul!" cried another of the gentlemen, "you are as like each other as young and old, tender and tough can be."
Count Reichenberg sprang up. "My Lord Abbot," said he, "a word with you."
The Abbot turned paler than before; he exchanged but one rapid glance with the brethren, but they all understood him; then he rose and followed the Count into a deep window-bay.
"My Lord Abbot, I am a connection of yours, do you not know me?" said the knight without farther preface.
"I never saw you," replied the Abbot. "For since my sixteenth year I have lived out of the world as a monk. But if you are the man who married my sister and then repudiated her, you are no relation of mine, there can be no friendship between that man and me."
"I am the man," said Reichenberg defiantly. "I ask you--where that boy came from to you?" He pointed with an angry expression to Donatus.
"He was bequeathed to us," said the Abbot calmly.
"By whom?" The Abbot looked at Reichenberg, measuring him from head to foot with a steady gaze.
"That," he said, "is a secret of the confessional."
"I will pay you for it," the Count whispered in his ear. "Your convent shall benefit largely, I will make over to you by deed a manor and an alp above Taufers with glebe and pasturage, and all rights secured to you--only tell me the name of the boy"s parents."
"No, my lord--not a word; did you ever hear that a Benedictine sold the secrets of the confessional?"
The Count stamped his foot.
"Then I will find some means of making you speak by force--at a more opportune moment."
The Abbot looked at him quietly and proudly. "You may kill me, but you can never make me speak."
"Then one of your herd will, who is less steadfast that you."
"I will answer for my brethren, man by man," said the Abbot with dignity.
The Count raised his hand threateningly, "Woe to you if I discover what I suspect--"
"Ho, ho! Count Reichenberg, what are you making this noise about?" and the Duke suddenly stepped between them. "What am I to think of you for thus disturbing the peace of this quiet hour?"
"I will inform you presently, my lord Duke. Just now grant me one word with the young monk there." He signed to Donatus to approach, and the boy rose and came modestly forward.
"Will you tell me who you are?"
"I am a monk," said Donatus, shortly and firmly.