University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

While all must be conscious of the fearful infirmities
that beset human nature, there are none so
base as not to know that their being contains the
seeds of that godlike principle which still likens
them to their divine Creator. Virtue commands
the respect of man, in whatever accidental stage of
civilization, or of mental improvement, he may happen
to exist; and he who practises its precepts is
certain of the respect, though he may not always
secure the protection, of his contemporaries.

As the Count of Leiningen walked down the rich
and vast aisle of the Abbey-church, his thoughts
vacillated between the impressions produced by the
Prior, and his latent, but still predominant, intentions.
He might have been likened to one who
listened to the councils of a good and of an evil
genius; that exhorting to forbearance and mercy,
and this tempting to violence by the usual array of
flattery and hopes. While he brooded over the
exactions of the community, which were founded
on a legal superiority that was alike hurtful to his
power and galling to his pride, its manner of thwarting
his views, and its constant opposition to his supremacy
in the valley, motives of enmity that were
justly heightened by the dissolute and audacious
deportment of too many of its members, the effect
of all was secretly opposed by the image of Father
Arnolph, surrounded by the mild and noble characteristics
of Christian virtue. Emich could not,
though he fain would, chase from his imagination
the impression of meekness, charity, and of self-denial,
that a long acquaintance with the monk had

made, and which the recent interview had served
both to freshen and to render more deep. But a
spectacle was prepared to meet his eyes in the
court of the convent, that did as much towards
weakening this happy influence of the Prior, by setting
the pride of the noble in opposition to his better
feelings, as could have been wished by the bitterest
enemy of Limburg.

It has been said that the outer wall of the Abbey
encircled the entire brow of the hill, or mountain,
on which the convent stood. Though the buildings
were spacious and numerous, the size of the little
plain on the summit left ample space for exercise
and air. Besides the cloisters, which were vast,
though possessing the character of monkish seclusion,
there were gardens in the rear of the Abbot's
abode, and a court of considerable extent, immediately
in front of the church. Athwart this court,
in which sundry groups of the late congregation yet
lingered, was drawn up, in military order, a band
of soldiers, wearing the colors, and acknowledging
the authority, of the Elector Friedrich. The secret
signal given by Father Bonifacius, when the Count
entered the choir, had prepared this unwelcome
sight for his neighbor.

While the men-at-arms leaned on their arquebuses,
in grave attention to discipline, the Knight
of Rhodes and the Abbé were occupied in paying
their court to the fair wife of the Burgomaster of
Deurckheim, and to her scarce fairer daughter.
Young Berchthold stood aloof; watching the interview
with feelings allied equally to envy and jealousy.

“A fair morning and a comfortable mass to you,
high-born Emich!” cried the husband and father
heartily, but lifting his cap, as the noble approached
the spot where the burgher stood, waiting for this
meeting ere he put foot into the stirrup; “I had

thought the sight of your fathers' altar was like to
cheat me of this honor, and to send me away without
a word from your friendly and much-prized
grace.”

“Between thee and me, Heinrich, this slight
could not happen,” answered the Count, grasping
the hand of the Burgomaster, which he squeezed
with the cordiality and vigor of a soldier. “How
fareth it with all in Deurckheim, that town of my
affection, not to say of my right?”

“As you could wish, noble Count, and well-disposed
to the house of Leiningen. In all that pertaineth
to love of your name and race, we lack
nothing.”

“This is well, honest Heinrich; it may yet be
better—But thou wilt do me grace this summer
morning?”

“Nay, it is for your grace to command in this
particular, and for one like me to obey.”

“Herr Heinrich, hast looked well at these
knaves of Friedrich? Ha! are they not melancholy
and ill-disposed at being cooped with Benedictines,
when there are stirring times in the Palatinate,
and when their master hath as much as he
can do to hold his court in Heidelberg! Seest thou
aught of this?”

Emich had dropped his voice, and the burgher
was not a man to express more in answer, than the
circumstances actually required. He looked eloquently,
however, and the exchange of glances between
him and the Count betrayed the nature of the
understanding that connected the castle and the city.

“You spoke of commanding my duty, mein Herr
Graf, and it is fitting I should know in what manner
to do you pleasure.”

“Nay, 'tis no pain-giving penance I ask. Turn
thy horse's head towards Hartenburg, and share of

my poor fare, with a loving welcome, for an hour
or so.”

“I would it were within compass, my Lord
Count,” returned Heinrich, casting a doubting look
towards Meta and his wife—“but these Sunday
masses are matters in which the women love to
deal; and from the first sound of the matin bell, till
we shut the gates at even, I scarce call myself master
of a thought.”

“By the Virgin! 'Twould seem ill indeed, did
not Hartenburg contain a roof to shelter all of thy
name and love.”

“There are noble gentlemen already on your hospitality,
and I would not fain—”

“Name them not. This in the gay doublet, that
weareth the white cross, is but a houseless Knight
of Rhodes, one that wandereth like the dove from
the ark, uncertain where to place his foot; and he
of black vestments, an idle Abbé from among the
French, who doth little else but prate with the
women. Leave thy female gender in their hands,
for they are much accustomed to these gallantries.”

“Zum Henker! most nobly born eccellenz, I
never doubted their handiness in all idlenesses; but
my wife hath little humor for vain attentions of this
nature, and not to conceal from my lord any of our
humors, I will confess it is as little to my pleasure
to witness so much ceremony with a woman.
Were the well-born Ermengarde, your noble consort,
in the castle, my female charge might be glad
to pay their court to her, but in her absence I doubt
that they will cause more encumbrance than they
will afford satisfaction.”

“Name it not, honest Heinrich, but leave the
matter to me. As for these idlers, I will find them
occupation, when fairly out of the saddle; so will I
not excuse the youngest of thy name.”

The warm, frank manner of the noble prevailed,

though the arrangement was not altogether agreeable
to the Burgomaster; but in that age hospitality
was always of so direct a character as seldom to
admit denial without sufficient excuse. Emich now
paid his court to the females. Smoothing his moustache
and beard, he saluted the cheeks of Ulricke,
with affectionate freedom, and then, presuming on
his years and rank, he pressed a kiss on the ruby
lips of Meta. The girl blushed and laughed, and in
her confusion curtesied, as if in acknowledgment of
the grace from one of so high quality. Heinrich
himself, though he so little liked the coquetry of the
strangers, witnessed these liberties not only without
alarm but with evident contentment.

“Many thanks, noble Emich, for this honor to my
women,” he cried, lifting his bonnet again. “Meta
is not used to these compliments, and she scarce
knoweth rightly how to acknowledge the grace, for,
to say truth, it is not often that her cheek feeleth the
tickling of a beard. I am no saluter of her sex, and
there are none in Deurckheim that may so presume.”

“St. Denis defend me!” exclaimed the Abbé; “in
what shameful negligence have we fallen!” saluting
the mild Ulricke on the instant, and repeating the
same ceremony with the daughter, so suddenly, as
to leave none present time to recover from their
surprise. “Sir Knight of Rhodes, we appear in
this affair as but of indifferent breeding!”

“Hold, cousin of Viederbach,” said Emich, laughing,
while he placed a hand before his kinsman—
“We forget, all this time, that we are in the court
of Limburg, and that salutations which savor so
much of earth may scandalize the holy Benedictines.
We will to horse, and keep our gallantries for a
better season.”

The forward, impatient movement of young
Berchthold was self-checked, and, swallowing his
discontent, he turned aside to conceal his vexation.

In the mean time, the whole party prepared to
mount. Although repulsed in his effort to obtain a
salute from the fair girl, who had so passively received
these liberties from his kinsman and the
Abbé, the Knight of Rhodes busied himself in assisting
the damsel upon the crupper of her father's saddle.
A similar office was performed for Ulricke by
the Count of Leiningen himself, and then the noble
threw his own booted and heavy leg across the
large and strong-jointed war-horse that was pawing
the pavement of the court. The others imitated his
example, even to the mounted servitors, who were
numerous; when, doing stately reverence to the
large crucifix that stood before them, the whole
cavalcade ambled from the court.

There were many curious spectators around the
outer gate, among whom were sundry of the more
humble dependants of Hartenburg, purposely collected
there, by an order of their lord, in the event
of any sudden violence arising from his visit to the
Abbey, together with a crowd of mendicants.

“Alms, great Emich! Alms, worthy and wealthy
Burgomaster! God's blessing on ye both, and holy
St. Benedict heed ye in his prayers! We are a-hungred
and a-cold, and we crave alms at your
honorable hands!”

“Give the rogues a silver pence,” said the Count
to the purse-bearer, who rode in his train—“They
have a starving look, in sooth. These godly Benedictines
have, of late, been so busied between their
garrison and their masses, that they have forgotten
to feed their poor. Come nearer, friend; art of
the Jaegerthal?”

“No, noble Count. I come from a pilgrimage to
a distant shrine, but want and suffering have befallen
me by the way.”

“Hast pressed the monks for charity? or dost

thou find them too much engaged in godliness to
remember human suffering?”

“Great Count, they give freely; but where there
are many mouths to feed, there needs be much gold.
I say naught against the holy community of Limburg,
which is godly in charity, as in grace.”

“Give the knave a kreutzer;” growled Heinrich
Frey; “hast thou aught to show in the way of authority
for undertaking this pilgrimage, and for
assailing the Elector's subjects and servitors in a
public horse-path?”

“Naught but this, illustrious Burgomaster,”—
Heinrich wore his chain of office—“naught but the
commands of my confessor, and this pass of our
own chief men.”

“Callest this naught? Thou speakest of a legal
instrument of high quality, an' it were but a copy
of silly rhymes! Hold! thou must not be led into
temptation by too much want. Meta, wench, hast
a kreutzer?”

“Here is a silver pence, that may better suit the
pilgrim's necessities, father.”

“God keep thee, child! Dost expect to escape
want thyself, with such prodigality? But stay—
there are many of them, and the piece justly distributed
might do good. Come nearer, friends. Here
is a silver zwanziger, which you will divide honestly
into twenty parts, of which two are for the stranger,
for to him are we most indebted by the commands
of God, and one for each inhabitant of the
valley, not forgetting the poor woman that, in your
haste, and by reason of her years, you have prevented
from drawing near. For this boon, I ask
prayers of you in behalf of the Elector, the city of
Deurckheim, and the family of Frey.”

So saying, the Burgomaster pushed ahead, and
was soon at the foot of the mountain of Limburg.
The train of footmen, who had lingered to witness

the largess of the magistrate, and who had considered
the indifference of Emich as what was no
more than natural in one, placed by Providence in a
situation so far removed from vulgar wants, was
about to follow, when a lay-brother of the convent
touched one of the party on the arm, signing for
him to re-enter the court.

“Thou art needed further, friend,” whispered the
lay-brother. “Amuse thyself with these men-at-arms
till they retire; then seek the cloisters.”

A nod sufficed to tell the lay-brother that he was
understood, and he immediately disappeared. The
follower of Count Emich did as commanded, loitering
in-the court until the object of the Abbot was
accomplished, that of exhibiting the protection of
the Elector to his dangerous neighbor, and the
arquebusiers marched to their quarters. The road
was no sooner clear, than the peasant who had been
detained proceeded to do as he had been ordered.

In each conventual edifice of the other hemisphere,
there is an inner court surrounded by low
and contemplative arcades, called the cloisters.
The term, which is given to the seclusion of monastic
life in general, and to the objects of the institution
itself, in an architectural sense, is limited to the
secluded and sombre piazzas just mentioned. When
this part of the building is decorated, as often happens,
with the elaborate ornaments of the Gothic
style, it is not easy to conceive a situation more
happily imagined for the purposes of reflection, self-examination,
and religious calm. To us the cloisters
have ever appeared pregnant with the poetry
of monkish existence, and, Protestant as we are, we
never yet entered one without feeling the influence
of that holy and omnipotent power that is thought
to be propitiated by conventual seclusion. In Italy,
the land of vivid thought and of glorious realities, the
pencils of the greatest masters have been put in

requisition to give the cloisters a mild attraction,
blended with lessons of instruction, that are in strict
consonance with their uses. Here are found some
of the finest remains of Raphael, of Domenichino,
and of Andrea del Sarto; and the traveller now
enters vaulted galleries, that the monk so long paced
in religious hope or learned abstraction, to visit the
most prized relics of art.

The dependant of Count Emich had no difficulty
in finding his way to the place in question, for, as
usual, there was a direct communication between
the cloisters of Limburg and the church. By entering
the latter, and taking a lateral door, which
was known to lead to the sacristy, he found himself
beneath the arcades, in the midst of the touching
seclusion described. Against the walls were tablets
with Latin inscriptions, in honor of different brothers
who had been distinguished by piety and knowledge;
and here and there was visible, in ivory or
stone, that constant monitor of Catholic worship,
the crucifix.

The stranger paused, for a single monk paced
the arcades, and his mien was not inviting for one
who doubted of his reception. At least so thought
the dependant of Emich, who might easily have
mistaken the chastened expression of Father Arnolph's
features, clouded as they now were with
care, for severity.

“What wouldst thou?” demanded the Prior, when
a turn brought him face to face with the intruder.

“Reverend monk, thy much-prized blessing.”

“Kneel, and receive it, son. Thou art doubly
blest; in seeking consolation from the Church, and
in avoiding the fatal heresies of the times.”

The Prior repeated the benediction, made the
usual sign of grace, and motioned for the other to
rise.

“Wouldst thou aught else?” he asked, observing

that the peasant did not retire, as was usual for those
who received this favour.

“Naught—unless yonder brother hath occasion
for me.”

The face of Siegfried was thrust through a door
which led to the cells. The countenance of the
Prior changed like that of one who had lost all confidence
in the intentions of his companion, and he
pursued his way along the arcade. The other
glided past, and disappeared by the door which he
had been covertly invited to enter.

It has already been said that the Benedictine is an
order of hospitality. A principal building of the hill
was especially devoted to the comforts of the Abbot,
and to those of the travellers it was always his duty,
and in the case of Father Bonifacius scarcely less
often his pleasure, to entertain. Here were seen
some signs of the great wealth of the monastery,
though it was wealth chastened by forms, and restricted
by opinion; still there was little of self-denial,
or indeed of any of that self-mortification which is
commonly thought to be the inseparable attendant
of the cell. The rooms were wainscoted with dark
oak; emblems of religious faith, in costly materials,
abounded; nor was there any want of velvet and
other stuffs, all however of sober colours, though of
intrinsic value. Father Siegfried ushered the peasant
into one of the most comfortable of these rooms.
It was the cabinet of the Abbot, who, having thrown
aside the robes of office in which he had so lately
appeared in the choir, and, ungirt and divested of
all the churchly pomp in which he had just shown
himself to the people, was now taking his ease,
with the indolence of a student, and with some of
the negligence of a debauchee.

“Here is the youth I have named to you, holy
Abbot,” said Father Siegfried, motioning his companion
to advance.

Bonifacius laid down a parchment-covered and
illuminated volume, one but lately issued from the
press, rubbing his eyes like a man suddenly roused
from a dreamy abstraction.

“Truly, brother Siegfried, these knaves of Leipzig
have done wonders with their art! Not a word
can I find astray, or a thought concealed. God
knows to what pass of information this excess of
knowledge, so long sacred to the learned, may yet
lead us! The office of a librarian will no longer be
of rare advantages, or scarcely of repute.”

“Have we not proofs of the evil, in the growing
infidelity, and in the manifest insubordination of the
times?”

“It were better for all their souls, and their present
repose, that fewer did the thinking in this troublesome
world—Thou art named Johan, son?”

“Gottlob, most reverend Abbot, by your leave,
and with the Church's favor.”

“'Tis a pious appellation, and I trust thou dost not
forget to obey the duty of which it should hourly
remind thee.”

“In that particular I can say that I praise God,
father, for all the benefits I receive, and were they
double what they are, I feel that within me which
says I could go on rendering thanks for ever, for
gracious gifts.”

The answer of Gottlob caused the Abbot to turn
his head. After studying the demure expression of
the young man's face intently, he continued—

“This is well; thou art a huntsman in Count
Emich's household?”

“His cow-herd, holy Abbot, and a huntsman in
the bargain; for a more scampering, self-losing,
trouble-giving family is not to be found in the Palatinate,
than this of mine!”

“I remember it was a cow-herd; thou dealt a
little lightly with my brother Siegfried here, in pretending

thou wert of Deurckheim, and not of the
castle.”

“To speak fairly to your reverence, there was some
business between us; for be it known to you, holy
Abbot, a cow-herd is made to suffer for all the frolics
of his beasts, and so I preferred to do penance simply
for my own backslidings, without white-washing the
consciences of all Lord Emich's cattle in the bargain.”

The Abbot turned again, and this time his look
was still longer and more scrutinizing than before.

“Hast thou heard of Luther?”

“Does your reverence mean the drunken cobbler
of Deurckheim.”

“I mean the monk of Wittenberg, knave: though,
by St. Benedict! thou hast not unaptly named the
rebel; for truly doth he cobble that would fain mend
the offices or discipline of Holy Church! I ask if
thou hast sullied thy understanding and weakened
thy faith, by lending ear to this damnable heresy,
that is abroad in our Germany?”

“St. Benedict and the blessed Maria keep your
reverence in mind, according to your deserts! What
hath a poor cow-herd to do with questions that
trouble the souls of the learned, and cause even the
peaceably disposed to become quarrelsome and war-like?”

“Thou hast received a schooling above thy fortune—Art
of the Jaegerthal?”

“Born and nurtured, holy Abbot. We are of long
standing in the valley, and few families are better
known for skill in rearing beeves, or for dealing
cunningly with a herd, than that of which I come,
humble and poor as I may seem to your reverence.”

“I doubt but there is as much seeming as reality
in this indifferent opinion of thyself. But thou hast
had an explanation with brother Siegfried, and we
count on thy services. Thou knowest the power of

the Church, son, and cannot be ignorant of its disposition
to deal mercifully with those that do it homage,
nor of its displeasure when justly angered. We
are disposed to deal in increased kindness with those
who do not stray from the fold, at this moment,
when the Devils are abroad scattering the ignorant
and helpless.”

“Notwithstanding all you have said, most reverend
Abbot, concerning the trifle I have gleaned in the
way of education, I am too little taught to understand
aught but plain speech. In the matter of a
bargain it might be well to name the conditions
clearly, lest a poor, but well-meaning, youth should
happen to be damned, simply because he hath little
knowledge of Latin, or cannot clearly understand
what hath not been clearly said.”

“I have no other meaning than that thy pious conduct
will be remembered at the altar and the confessional;
and that indulgences, and other lenities,
will not be forgotten when there is question of thee.”

“This is excellent, holy Abbot, for those that may
profit by it—but, Saint Benedict help us! of what
account would it all be, were Lord Emich to threaten
his people with the dungeon and stripes, should any
dare to frequent the altars of Limburg, or otherwise
to have dealings with the reverend brotherhood?”

“Dost think our prayers, or our authority, cannot
penetrate the walls of Hartenburg?”

“Of that, most powerful Bonifacius, I say nothing,
since I never have yet profited in the way you
mean. The dungeon of Hartenburg and I are not
strangers to each other; and, were I to speak my
most intimate thoughts, it would be to say, that Saint
Benedict himself would find it no easy matter to
open its doors, or to soften its pavements, so long
as the Count was in an angry humour. Potz Tausend,
holy Abbot! it is well to speak of miracles

and of indulgences; but let him who imagines that
either is about to make that damp and soul-chilling
hole warm and pleasant, pass a night within its walls
in November! He may enter with as much faith in
the Abbey prayers as he will; but if he do not come
forth with great dread of Lord Emich's displeasure,
why he is not flesh and blood, but a burning kiln in
the form of mortality!”

Father Bonifacius saw that it was useless endeavoring
to influence the mind of the cow-herd in
the vulgar manner, and he had recourse to surer
means. Motioning his companion to hand him a little
casket, externally decorated with many of the visible
signs of the Christian faith, he took out of it a
purse, that wanted for neither size nor weight. The
eyes of Gottlob glistened—had not the monks been
much occupied in examining the gold, they might
have suspected that the pleasure he betrayed was a
little affected—and he manifested a strong disposition
to know the contents of a bag that had so many outward
signs of value.

“This will make peace and create faith between
us,” said the Abbot, handing a golden mark to Gottlob.
“Here is that which the dullest comprehension
can understand; and whose merits, I doubt not, will
be sufficiently clear to one of thy ready wit.”

“Your reverence does not overvalue my means,”
answered the cow-herd, who pocketed the piece
without further ceremony. “Were our good Mother
of the Church to take this method of securing friends,
she might laugh at all the Luthers between the Lake
of Constance and the ocean, him of Wittenberg
among the number: but, by some strange oversight,
she has of late done more towards taking away the
people's gold, than towards bestowing! I am rejoiced
to find that the mistake is at last discovered;
and chiefly am I glad, that one, poor and unworthy

as I, has been among the first that she is pleased to
make an instrument of her new intentions!”

The Abbot appeared at a loss to understand the
character of his agent; but, being a worldly and
selfish man himself, he counted rather loosely on the
influence of a mediator whose potency is tacitly
admitted by all of mercenary propensities. He resumed
his seat, therefore, like one who saw little
necessity for farther concealment, and went directly
to the true object of the interview.

“Thou hast something to communicate from the
Castle of Hartenburg, good Gottlob?”

“If it be your reverence's pleasure to listen.”

“Proceed—Canst tell aught of the force Emich
hath gathered in the hold?”

“Mein Herr Abbot, it is no easy matter to count
varlets that go staggering about, from the moment
the sun touches your Abbey towers, to that in which
he sets behind the Teufelstein.”

“Hast thou not means of separating them in divisions,
and of making the enumerations of each
apart?”

“Holy Abbot, that experiment hath failed. I divided
them into the drunk and the sober; but, for
the life of me, I could never get them all to be long
enough of the same mind, to hunt up those that were
in garrets and cellars; for while this slept off his
debauch, that swallowed cup after cup, in a manner
to recruit the drunkards as fast as they lost. It were
far easier to know the Emperor's policy, than to
count Lord Emich's followers!”

“Still they are many.”

“They are and they are not, as one happens to
view soldiership. In the way of draining a butt,
Duke Friedrich would find them a powerful corps,
even in an attack against his Heidelburg tun; and
yet I doubt whether he would think them of much
account in the pressing warfare he wageth.”

“Go to—thou art too indirect in thy answers for
the duty thou hast undertaken. Return the gold,
if thou refusest the service.”

“I pray thee, reverend Abbot, to remember the
risks I have already run in this desperate undertaking,
and to consider that the trifle you have so
munificently bestowed, is already more than earned
by the danger of my ears, to say nothing of great
loss of reputation, and some pricking of conscience.”

“This clown hath tampered with thee, Father
Siegfried,” said the Abbot, in a tone of reproach to
the attending monk: “he even dares to make light
of our presence and office!”

“We have the means of recalling him to his respect,
as well as to a remembrance of his engagements.”

“Thou sayest true: let the remedies be applied—
but hold!”

During this brief colloquy between the Benedictines,
Father Siegfried had touched a cord, and a
lay-brother, of vigorous frame, showed himself. At
a signal from the monk, he laid a hand on an arm
of the unresisting Gottlob, and was about to lead
him from the room, when the last words of the
Abbot, and another signal from Father Siegfried,
caused him to pause.

Bonifacius leaned a cheek on his hand, and mused
long on the policy of the step he was about to take.
The relations between the Abbey and the Castle,
to adopt diplomatic language, were precisely in that
awkward state in which it was almost as hazardous
to recede as to advance. To imprison a vassal of
the Count of Hartenburg, might bring matters to
an immediate issue; and yet, to permit him to quit
the convent, was to deprive the brotherhood of the
means of extracting the information it was so important
to obtain, and to procure which had been
the principal inducement of attending the debauch

already described, at a moment when there was so
little real amity between the revellers. The precaution
of Emich had frustrated this well-laid scheme,
and the result of the experiment had been too costly
to admit of repetition. There was also hazard in
permitting Gottlob to return to Hartenburg, for the
expectations and hostile spirit of the Abbey had been
so unadvisedly exposed to the hind, as to render it
certain he would relate what had occurred. It was
desirable, too, to maintain an appearance of confidence,
although so little was felt; for the monk
well knew, that next to friendship, its apparent existence
was of account in preventing the usual expedients
of open hostility. Agents were at Heidelburg,
pressing the Elector on a point of the last
concern to the welfare of the brotherhood; and it
was particularly material that Emich should not be
driven to any overt act before the result of this
mission was known. In short, these too little powers
were in a condition similar to that in which some
greater communities have been known to exist, instinctively
alive to the opposing character of their
respective interests, and yet tampering with the denouement,
because neither was yet prepared to
proclaim all it wished, meditated, and hoped to be
able to attain, In the mean time, there was an ostensible
courtesy between the belligerent parties,
occasionally obscured by bursts of natural feeling,
which, in politics, the world calls bonhommie, but
which would, perhaps, be better termed by the
frank designation of artifice.

The Abbot was so much accustomed to this sort
of politic reflection, that all these considerations
passed before his mind in less time than we have
consumed in enumerating them. Still the pause
was salutary; for, when he resumed the discourse,
he spoke like one whose decision was supported by
thought.

“Thou wilt tarry with us a little, Gottlob, for the
good of thy soul,” he said, making a sign that was
understood by his inferiors.

“A thousand thanks, humane and godly Abbot.
Next to the present good of my body, I look with
most concern to the future condition of my poor
soul; and there is great comfort and consolation in
your gracious words. It is but the soul of a poor
man; but, being my all, in the way of souls, it must
needs be taken care of.”

“The discipline we meditate will be healthful.
Brothers, lead the penitent to his cell.”

The singular indifference with which Gottlob
heard his doom, might have given the Abbot motive
for reflection, had he not been so much occupied by
other thoughts. As it was, the hind accompanied
the lay brother without resistance, and indeed with
the manner of one who appeared to think he was a
gainer by this especial notice from the community
of Limburg. So natural and easy was the air of
Gottlob, as they took the direction of a gloomy corridor,
that Father Siegfried began to believe he
had employed an agent whose mind, shrewd and
peculiar as it seemed at times, was in truth subject
to moments of more than usual imbecility and dullness.
He placed the cow-herd in a cell, pointed to
a crucifix, its only article of furniture, and, without
deeming it necessary even to secure the door, retired.