University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

In those ages in which moral wrongs were chiefly
repaired by superstition, and the slaves of the grosser
passions believed they were only to be rebuked by
signal acts of physical self-denial, the world often
witnessed examples of men retiring from its allurements,
to caves and huts, for the ostensible purposes
of penitence and prayer. That this extraordinary
pretension to godliness was frequently the
cloak of ambition and deceit is certain, but it would
be uncharitable to believe that, in common, it did not
proceed from an honest, though it might be an ill-directed,
zeal. Hermitages are still far from infrequent
in the more southern parts of Europe, though
they are of rare occurrence in Germany; but previously
to the change of religion which occurred in
the sixteenth century, and consequently near the
period of this tale, they were perhaps more often
met with among the descendants of the northern
race, than among the more fervid fancies of the
southern stock of that quarter of the world. It is
a law of nature that the substances which most
easily receive impressions, are the least likely to retain
them; and possibly there may be requisite a
constancy and severity of character to endure the
never-ending and mortifying exactions of the anchorite,
that were not so easily found among the
volatile and happy children of the sun, as among
the sterner offspring of the regions of cold and
tempests.

Whatever may be said of the principles of him
who thus abandoned worldly ease for the love of

God, it it quite sure, that in practice, there were
present and soothing rewards in this manner of life,
that were not without strong attractions to morbid
minds; especially to those in which the seeds of
ambition were dormant rather than extinct. It was
rare, indeed, that a recluse established himself in the
vicinity of a simple and religious neighborhood, and
few were they who sought absolute solitude without
reaping a rich harvest of veneration and moral dependence
among the untrained minds of his admirers.
In this treacherous manner does vanity beset us in
our strong-holds of mental security, and he who
has abandoned the world, in the hope of leaving
behind him those impulses which endangered his
hopes, finds the enemy in a new shape, intrenched
in the very citadel of his defences. There is little
merit, and commonly as little safety, in turning the
back on any danger, and he has far less claims to
the honors of a hero who outlives the contest in
consequence of means so questionable, than he who
survives because he has given a mortal blow to his
antagonist. The task assigned to man is to move
among his fellows doing good, filling his part in the
scale of creation, and escaping from none of the
high duties which God has allotted to his being; and
greatly should he be grateful, that, while his service
is arduous, he is not left without the powerful aid of
that intelligence which controls the harmony of the
universe.

The Anchorite of the Cedars, as the recluse now
visited by the monk and his accidental companions
was usually termed by the peasants, and by the
burghers of Deurckheim, had made his appearance
about six months before the opening of our story, in
the Ringmauer. Whence he had come, how long
he intended to remain, and what had been his previous
career, were facts equally unknown to those
among whom he so suddenly took up his abode.

None had seen him arrive, nor could any say from
what sources he drew the few articles of household
furniture which were placed in his hut. They who
left the camp untenanted one week, on returning the
next, had found it occupied by a man, who had arranged
one of the deserted buildings in a manner to
shelter him from the storms, and who, by erecting
a crucifix at his door, had sufficiently announced
the motive of his retirement. It was usual to hail
the establishment of a hermit in any particular district,
as a propitious event; and many were the
hopes excited, and plans of effecting temporal objects
concocted, by the intervention of the prayers
of the stranger, before his presence had been known
a fortnight. All within the influence of the name of
the hermit, except Emich of Leinengen-Hartenburg,
the burgomasters of Deurckheim, and the monks
of Limburg, heard of his arrival with satisfaction.
The haughty and warlike baron had imbibed a
standing prejudice against all devotees, from an inherited
enmity to the adjoining convent, which had
contested the sovereignty of the valley with his
family for ages; while the magistrates had a latent
jealousy of every influence which custom and the
laws had not rendered familiar. As to the monks,
the secret of their distrust was to be found in that
principle of human nature, which causes us to dislike
being outdone in any merit of which we make
an especial profession, even though superior godliness
be its object. Until now the Abbot of Limburg
was held to be the judge, in the last resort, of all intercessions
between earth and heaven; and as his
supremacy had the support of time, he had long enjoyed
it in that careless security which lures so
many of the prosperous to their downfall.

These antipathies on the part of the honored and
powerful might, to say the least, have rendered the
life of the anchorite very uncomfortable, if not positively

insecure, were it not for the neutralizing effect
of the antagonist forces which were set in motion.
Opinion, deepened by superstition, held its shield
over the humble hut, and month after month glided
away, after the arrival of the stranger, during which
he received no other testimonials of the feelings excited
by his presence, than those connected with the
reverence of the bulk of the population. An accidental
communication with Berchthold was ripening
into intimacy, and, as will be seen in the course
of the narrative, there were others to whom his
counsel, or his motives, or his prayers, were not
indifferent.

The latter fact was made sufficiently apparent to
those who on account of their mutual distrust, now
presented themselves with less ceremony than usual,
at the threshold of the hut. The light within came
from a fagot which was burning on the rude hearth,
but it was quite strong enough to show the monk
and his companions that the anchorite was not alone.
Their footsteps had evidently been heard, and a
female had time to arise from her knees, and to arrange
her mantle in such a manner as effectually to
conceal her countenance. The hurried action was
scarcely completed, when the Benedictine darkened
the door with his gloomy robes, while Berchthold
and his friend stood gazing over his shoulders, with
lively curiosity mingled with surprise.

The form and countenance of the anchorite were
those of middle age. His eye had lost nothing of
its quickness or intelligence, though his movements
had the deliberation and care that long experience
insensibly interweaves in the habits of those who
have not lived in vain. He expressed neither concern
nor wonder at the unexpected visits, but regarding
his guests earnestly, like one who assured
himself of their identity, he mildly motioned for all
to enter. There was jealous suspicion in the glance

of the Benedictine, as he compried: for until now,
he had no reason to believe that the recluse was
usurping so intimate and so extensive an influence
over the minds of the young, as the presence of the
unknown female would give reason to believe.

“I knew that thou wert of holy life and constant
prayer, venerable hermit,” he said, in a tone that
questioned in more than one meaning of the term,
“but until this moment, I had not thought thee vested
with the Church's power to hearken to the transgressions
of the faithful and to forgive sins!”

“The latter is an office, brother, that of right
belongs only to God. The head of the Church himself
is but an humble instrument of faith, in discharging
this solemn trust.”

The countenance of the monk did not become
more amicable at this reply, nor did he fail to cast
a scrutinizing glance at the muffled form of the
stranger, in a fruitless endeavor to recognize her
person.

“Thou hast not even the tonsure,” he continued,
while his uneasy eye rolled from that of the recluse
to the form of the stranger, who had shrunk, as far as
the narrow place would permit, from observation.

“Thou seest, father, I have all the hair that time
and infirmities have left me. But is it thought, in
thy beneficed and warlike abbey, that the advice of
one who has lived long enough to know and to lament
his own errors, can injure the less experienced? If
unhappily I may have deceived myself, thou art
timely present, reverend monk, to repair the wrong.”

“Let the maiden come to the confessional of the
Abbey Church, if distrust or apprehension weigh
upon her mind; doubt it not, she will find great
comfort in the experiment.”

“As I will testify, from many trials—” abruptly
interposed the cow-herd, who advanced intrusively
between the two devotees, in a manner to occupy

all their attention. “`Go upon the hill, and ease thy
soul, Gottlob,' is my good and venerable mother in
the practice of saying, whenever my opinion of myself
is getting to be too humble, `and discourse with
some of the godly fathers of the Abbey, whose wisdom
and unction will not fail to lighten thy heart of
even a heavier load. There is Father Ulrich, he is
a paragon of virtue and self-denial; and Father
Cuno is even more edifying and salutary than he;
while Father Siegfried is more balmy to a soul, than
the most reverend Abbot, the virtuous and pious
Father Bonifacius himself! Whatever thou doest,
child, go upon the hill, and enter boldly into the
church, like a loaded and oppressed sinner as thou
art, and especially seek counsel and prayer from the
excellent and beloved father Siegfried.”'

“And thou—who art thou?” demanded the half-doubting
monk, “that thus speakest of me, in terms
that I so little merit, to my face?”

“I would I were Lord Emich of Hartenburg, or
for that matter, the Elector Palatine himself, in
order to do justice to those I honor; in which case
certain Fathers of Limburg should have especial
favor, and that quickly too, after my own flesh and
blood! Who am I, father? I wonder that a face
so often seen at the confessional should be forgotten.
What there is of me to boast of, Father Siegfried, is
of thine own forming—but it is no cause of surprise
that thou dost not recall me to mind, since the meek
and lowly of spirit are sure to forget their own
good works!”

“Thou callest thyself Gottlob—but the name belongs
to many Christians.”

“More bear it, reverend monk, than know how
to do it honor. There is Gottlob Frincke, as arrant
a knave as any in Deurckheim; and Gottlob Popp
might have more respect for his baptismal vow;
and as to Lord Gottlob of Manheim—”

“We will overlook the transgressions of the remainder
of thy namesakes, for the good that thou
thyself hast done,” interrupted the Benedictine, who,
having insensibly yielded to the unction of flattery in
the commencement of the interview, began now to
be ashamed of the weakness, as the fluent cow-herd
poured forth his words in a manner to excite some
suspicion of the quality of praise that came from
such a source. “Come to me when thou wilt, son,
and such counsel as a weak head, but a sincere
heart, can render, shall not be withheld.”

“How this would lighten the heart of my old
mother to hear! `Gottlob,' would she say—”

“What has become of thy companion, and of the
maiden?” hastily demanded the Benedictine.

As the part of the cow-herd was successfully performed,
he stood aside, with an air of well-acted
simplicity and amazement, leaving the discourse to
be pursued between the recluse and the monk.

“Thy guests have suddenly left us,” continued
the latter, after satisfying himself, by actual observation,
that no one remained in the hut but himself,
its regular occupant, and the honey-tongued Gottlob;
“and, as it would seem, in company!”

“They are gone as they came, voluntarily and
without question.”

“Thou knowest them, by frequent visits, holy
hermit?”

“Father, I question none: were the Elector Friedrich
to come into my abode, he would be welcome,
and this cow-herd is not less so. To both, at parting,
I merely say, `God speed ye!”'

“Thou keepest the cattle of the burghers, Gottlob?”

“I keep a herd, reverend priest, such as my masters
please to trust to my care.”

“We have grave cause of complaint against one
of thy fellows who serves the Count of Hartenburg,

and who is in the daily habit of trespassing on the
pastures of the church. Dost know the hind?”

“Potz Tausend! If all the knaves who do these
wrongs, when out of sight of their masters, were
set in a row before the eyes of the most reverend
Abbot of Limburg, he would scarce know whether
to begin with prayers or stripes, and they say he is a
potent priest at need, with both! I sometimes tremble
for my own conduct, though no one can have a
better opinion of himself than I, poor and lowly as
I stand in your reverend presence; for a hard fortune,
and some oversight in the management of my
father's affairs, have brought me to the need of
living among such associates. Were I not of approved
honesty, there might be more beasts on the
Abbey lands; and they who now pass their time in
fasting in sheer humility, might come to the practice
of sheer necessity.”

The Benedictine examined the meek countenance
of Gottlob with a keen distrustful eye; he next invited
the hermit to bestow his blessing, and then
motioning for the hind to retire, he entered on the
real object of his visit to the hermitage.

We shall merely say, at this point of the narrative,
that the moment was extremely critical to
all who dwelt in the Palatinate of the Rhine. The
Elector had, perhaps imprudently for a prince of his
limited resources, taken an active part in the vindictive
warfare then raging, and serious reverses
threatened to endanger not only his tranquillity but
his throne. It was a consequence of the feudal system,
which then so generally prevailed in Europe,
that internal disorders succeeded any manifest
though it might be only a temporary derangement
of the power of the potentate that held the right of
sovereignty over the infinite number of petty rulers
who, at that period, weighed particularly heavy on
Germany. To them he was the law, for they were

not apt to acknowledge any supremacy that did not
come supported by the strong hand. The ascending
scale of rulers, including baron, count, landgrave,
margrave, duke, elector, and king, up to the
nominal head of the state, the emperor himself, with
the complicated and varied interests, embracing allegiance
within allegiance, and duty upon duty, was
likely in itself to lead to dissension, had the Imperial
Crown been one of far more defined and positive
influence than it was. But, uncertain and indirect
in the application of its means, it was rare that any
very serious obstacle to tranquillity was removed,
without the employment of positive force. No
sooner was the Emperor involved in a serious struggle,
than the great princes endeavored to recover
that balance which had been lost by the long
ascendency of a particular family, while the minor
princes seldom saw themselves surrounded with external
embarrassment, that internal discord did not
come to increase the evil. As a vassal was commonly
but a rude reflection of his lord's enmities
and prejudices, the reader will have inferred from
the language of the cow-herd, that affairs were not
on the most amicable footing between those near
neighbors, the Abbot of Limburg and the Count of
Hartenburg. The circumstance of their existing so
near each other was, of itself, almost a certain
cause of rivalry; to which natural motive of contention
may be added the unremitted strife between
the influence of superstition and the dread of the
sword.

The visit of the monk had reference to certain
interests connected with the actual state of things,
as they existed between the Abbey and the Castle.
As it would be premature, however, to expose his
object, we shall be content with saying, that the
conference between the priest and the hermit lasted
for half an hour, when the former took his leave,

craving a blessing from one of a life so pure and
self-denying as his host.

At the door of the hut, the monk found Gottlob,
who had early been gotten rid of, it will be remembered,
but who, for reasons of his own, had seen fit
to await the termination of the conference.

“Thou here, son!” exclaimed the Benedictine.
“I had thought thee at peace, in thy bed, favored
with the benediction of a hermit so holy!”

“Good fortune is sure to drive sleep from my
eyes, father,” returned Gottlob, dropping in by the
side of the monk who was walking through the
cedars towards the ancient gateway of the camp.
“I am not of your animal kind, that is no sooner
filled with a good thing than it lies down to rest;
but the happier I become, the more I desire to be
up to enjoy it.”

“Thy wish is natural, and, although many natural
desires are to be resisted, I do not see the danger
of our knowing our own happiness.”

“Of the danger I will say nothing, father, but of
the comfort, there is not a youth in Deurckheim,
who can speak with greater certainty than myself.”

“Gottlob,” said the Benedictine, insensibly edging
nearer to his companion, like one willing to communicate
confidentially, “since thou namest Deurckheim,
canst say aught of the humor of its people, in
this matter of contention between our holy Abbot
and Lord Emich of Hartenburg?”

“Were I to tell thy reverence the truth that lies
deepest in my mind, it would be to say, that the
burghers wish to see the affair brought to an end,
in such a way as to leave no doubt, hereafter, to
which party they most owe obedience and love,
since they find it a little hard upon their zeal, to
have so large demands of these services made by
both parties.”

“Thou canst not serve God and Mammon, son;
so sayeth one who could not deceive.”

“And so sayeth reason, too, worshipful monk;
but to give thee at once my inmost soul, I believe
there is not a man in our Deurckheim, who believes
himself strong enough in learning to say, in this
strife of duties, which is God and which is
Mammon!”

“How! do they call in question our sacred
mission—our divine embassy—in short, our being
what we are?”

“No man is so bold as to say that the monks of
Limburg are what they are; that might be irreverent
to the Church, and indecent to Father Siegfried;
and the most we dare to say is, that they
seem to be what they are; and that is no small
matter, considering the way things go in this world.
`Seem to be, Gottlob,' said my poor father, `and
thou wilt escape envy and enemies; for in this
seemliness there is nothing so alarming to others;
it is only when one is really the thing itself, that men
begin to find fault. If thou wishest to live peaceably
with thy neighbors, push nothing beyond seeming to
be, for that much all will bear, since all can seem;
whereas being oftentimes sets a whole village in an
uproar. It is wonderful the virtue there is in seeming,
and the heart-burnings and scandal, ay, and the
downright quarrels there are in being just what one
seems.' No, the most we say, in Deurckheim, is
that the monks of Limburg seem to be men of God.”

“And Lord Emich?”

“As to Count Emich, father, we hold it wise to
remember he is a great noble. The Elector has
not a bolder knight, nor the emperor a truer vassal;
we say, therefore, that he seems to be brave and
loyal.”

“Thou makest great account, son, of these apparent
qualities.”

“Knowing the frailty of man, father, and the
great likelihood of error, when we wish to judge
of acts and reasons, that lie deeper than our knowledge,
we hold it to be the most prudent. No, let
us of Deurckheim alone, as men of caution!”

“For a cow-herd, thou wantest not wit—Canst
read?”

“By God's favor, Providence put that little accident
in my way when a child, reverend monk, and
I picked it up, as I might swallow a sweet morsel.”

“'Tis a gift more likely to injure than to serve
one of thy calling. The art can do little benefit to
thy herd!”

“I will not take upon myself to say, that any of
the cattle are much the better for it; though, to
deal fairly by thee, reverend Benedictine, there are
animals among them that seem to be.”

“How! wilt thou attempt to show a fact not only
improbable but impossible? Go to, thou hast fallen
upon some silly work of a jester. There have been
numberless of these commissions of the devil poured
forth, since the discovery of that imprudent brother
of Mainz. I would gladly hear in what manner a
beast can profit by the art of printing?”

“Thy patience, Father Siegfried, and thou shalt
know. Now here is a hind that can read, and there
is one that cannot. We will suppose them both the
servants of Emich of Hartenburg. Well, they go
forth of a morning with their herds; this taking the
path to the hills of the Count, and that, having read
the description of the boundaries between his Lord's
land and that of the holy Abbot of Limburg, taking
another, because learning will not willingly follow
ignorance; whereupon the reader reaches a nearer
and better pasture, than he who hath gone about to
feed upon ground that has only been trodden upon
too often before, by hoof of beast and foot of man.”

“Thy learning hath not done much towards

clearing thy head, Gottlob, whatever it may have
done for the condition of thy herd!”

“If your worship has any doubts of my being
what I say, here is proof of its justice, then—I know
nothing that so crams a man and confuses him as
learning! He who has but one horn can take it and
go his way; whereas he that hath many, may lose
his herd while choosing between instruments that
are better or worse. He that hath but one sword,
will draw it and slay his enemy: but he that hath
much armor, may lose his life while putting on his
buckler or head-piece.”

“I had not thought thee so skilful in answers.
And thou thinkest the good people of Deurckheim
will stand neuter between the Abbey and the Count?”

“Father, if thou wilt show me by which side they
will be the greatest gainers, I think I might venture
to say, with some certainty, on which side they will
be likely to draw the sword. Our burghers are
prudent townsmen, as I have said, and it is not
often that they are found fighting against their own
interests.”

“Thou shouldst know, son, that he who is most
favored in this life, may find the balances of justice
weighing against him in the next; while he who
suffers in the flesh, will be most likely to find its
advantage in the spirit.”

“Himmel! In that case, reverend Benedictine,
the most holy Abbot of Limburg himself may fare
worse hereafter then even a hind who now lives
like a dog!” exclaimed Gottlob, with an air of admiration
and simplicity that completely misled his
listener. “The one is said to comfort the body in
various ways, and to know the difference between
a cup of pure Rhenish and a draught of the washy
liquors that come from the other side of our mountains;
while the other, whether it be of necessity
or inclination I will not take upon myself to say,

drinks only of the spring. 'Tis a million of pities
that one never knoweth which to choose, present
ease with future pain, or a starving body with a
happy soul! Believe me, Father Siegfried, were thy
reverence to think more of these trials that befall us
ignorant youths, thou wouldst not deal so heavily
with the penances, as thine own severe virtue often
tempts thee to do.”

“What is thus done is done for thy health, future
and present. By chastening the spirit in this manner,
it is gradually prepared for its final purification,
and thou art not a loser in the eyes of thy fellows,
by leading a chaste life. Thou wilt have justice at
the settlement of the great account.”

“Nay, I am no greedy creditor, to dun Providence
for my dues. I very well know that what
will come cannot be prevented, and therefore I take
patience to be a virtue. But I hope these accounts,
of which you tell us so often, are kept with sufficient
respect for a poor man; for, to deal fairly with
thee, father, we have not overmuch favor in settling
those of the world.”

“Thou hast credit for all thy good deeds with thy
fellows, Gottlob.”

“I wish it were true! To me it seems that the
world is ready enough to charge, while it is as niggardly
as a miser in giving credit—I never did an
evil act—and as we are all mortal and frail, most
holy monk, these accidents will befall even your
saint or a Benedictine—that the deed itself and all
its consequences were not set down against me, in
letters that a short-sighted man might read; while
most of my merits—and considering I am but a
cow-herd they are of respectable quality—seem to
be forgotten. Now your Abbot, or his Highness the
Elector, or even Count Emich—”

“The Summer Landgrave!” interrupted the monk,
laughing.

“Summer or winter, as thou wilt, Father Siegfried,
he is Count of Hartenburg, and a noble of
Leiningen. Even he does no deed of charity, or
even of simple justice, that all men do not seize upon
the occasion to proclaim it, as eagerly as they endeavor
to upbraid me for the accidental loss of a
beast, or any other little backsliding, that may befall
one, who being bold under thy holy instruction,
sometimes stumbles against a sin.”

“Thou art a casuist, and, at another time, I must
look more closely into the temper of thy mind. At
present, thou mayst purchase favor of the Church
by enlisting a little more closely in her interests. I
remember thy cleverness and thy wit, Gottlob, for
both have been remarked in thy visits to the convent;
but, until this moment, there has not been sufficient
reason to use the latter in the manner that
we may fairly claim to do, considering our frequent
prayers, and the other consolations afforded in thy
behalf.”

“Do not be too particular, Father Siegfried, for
thy words reveal grievous penance!”

“Which may be much mitigated in future, if not
entirely avoided, by a service that I would now propose
to thee, honest Gottlob, and which I will venture
to say, from my knowledge of thy reverence
for holy things, as is manifest in thy attentions to
the pious hermit, and thy love for the Abbey of
Limburg, thou wouldst not refuse to undertake.”

“So!”

“Nay, I have as good as pledged myself to Father
Bonifacius to procure either thee, or one shrewd
and faithful as thee, to do a trusty service for the
brotherhood.”

“The latter might not be easy among the cowherds!”

“Of that I am sure. Thy skill in the management
of the beasts may yet gain thee the office of

tending the ample herds of the abbey. Thou art
already believed fit for the charge.”

“Not to deny my own merits, sagacious father, I
have already some knowledge of the pastures.”

“And of the beasts, too, Gottlob; we keep good
note of the characters of all who come to our confessionals.
There are worse than thine among them,
I do assure thee.”

“And yet have I never told thee half that I might
say of myself, father!”

“It is not important now. Thou knowest the state
of the contest between Count Emich and our Abbey.
The service that I ask of thee, son, is this; and by
discharging it, with thy wonted readiness, believe
me thou wilt gain favor with St. Benedict and his
children. We have had reason to know, that there
is a strong band of armed men in the castle, ready
and anxious to assail our walls, under a vain belief
that they contain riches and stores to repay the sacrilege;
but we want precise knowledge of their
numbers and intentions. Were we to send one of
known pursuits on this errand, the Count would find
means to mislead him; whereas, we think a hind of
thy intelligence might purchase the Church's kindness
without suspicion.”

“Were Count Emich to get wind of the matter,
he would not leave me an ear with which to listen
to thy holy admonitions.”

“Keep thine own council, and he will not suspect
one of thy appearance. Hast no pretext for visiting
the castle?”

“Nay, it would be easy to make a thousand. Here,
I might say, I wished to ask the cow-herd of Lord
Emich for his cunning in curing diseased hoofs,
or I might pretend a wish to change my service, or,
there is no want of laughing damsels in and about
the hold.”

“Enough: thou art he, Gottlob, for whom I have
sought daily for a fortnight. Go thy way, then,
without fail, and seek me, after to-morrow's mass,
in the Abbey.”

“It may be enough on the side of Heaven, father,
but men of our prudence must not forget their mortal
state. Am I to risk my ears, do discredit to
my simplicity, and neglect my herd, without a motive?”

“Thou wilt serve the Church, son; get favor in
the eyes of our reverend Abbot, and thy courage
and dexterity will be remembered in future indulgences.”

“That I shall serve the Church it is well known
to me, reverend Benedictine, and it is a privilege of
which a cow-herd hath reason to be proud; but, by
serving the Church, I shall make enemies on earth,
for two sufficient reasons: first, that the Church is
in no great esteem in this valley; and second, because
men never love a friend for being any better
than themselves. `No, Gottlob,' used my excellent
father to say, `seem to all around thee conscious of
thy unworthiness, after which thou mayst be what
thou seemest. On this condition only can virtue live
at peace with its fellow-creatures. But if thou
wouldst have the respect of mankind,' would he
say, `set a fair price on all thou doest, for the world
will not give thee credit for disinterestedness; and
if thou workest for naught, it will think thou deservest
naught. No,' did he shake his head and add,
`that which cometh easy is little valued, while that
which is costly, do men set a price upon.' ”

“Thy father was, like thyself, one that looked to
his ease. Thou knowest that we inhabitants of cells
do not carry silver.”

“Nay, righteous Benedictine, if it were a trifle of
gold, I am not one to break a bargain for so small a
difference.”

“Thou shalt have gold, then. On the faith of my
holy calling, I will give thee an image of the Emperor
in gold, shouldst thou succeed in bringing the
tidings we require.”

Gottlob stopped short, and kneeling, he reverently
asked the monk to bless him. The latter complied,
half doubting the discretion of employing such an
emissary, between whose cunning and simplicity he
was completely at fault. Still, as he risked nothing,
except in the nature of the information he was to
receive, he saw no sufficient reason for recalling the
commission he had just bestowed. He gave the desired
benediction, therefore; and our two conspirators
descended the mountain in company, discoursing,
as they went, of the business on which the cowherd
was about to proceed. When so near the road
as to be in danger of observation, they separated,
each taking the direction necessary to his object.