Part 8 (2/2)
”G.o.d grant it may be so!” said Eusebius, and his eyes rested sadly on the transfigured countenance of his young companion. Did he shake his head? no, he was only shaking off a startled moth. And Donatus rose.
”Let us go down,” he said, ”and leave this ensnaring spot which too much befools my senses! For I feel I had said things that I ought not to have said, and that it was not G.o.d who lent me such words.”
So saying he closed the little window with its panes, obscured by dust and its worm-eaten frame. At this moment a cheery blast from a horn rang in the distance. ”Oh look!” cried Donatus, ”a procession of riders is coming up the mountain!”
Eusebius went to the window.
”It is true,” said he, ”a riding party--they are coming here; we must hurry down to announce them to the Abbot; come.”
It was eleven o'clock, the hour when the brethren walked in the garden for recreation. Abbot Conrad of Ramuss, for it was he who now wore the mitre, was just then walking under a shady alley of trees and discussing with one of the brethren the preparations for ordaining Donatus a priest; for his favourite's festival must be kept with all the pomp of which the rules of the order allowed. Noonday silence lay on the peaceful little garden. The apricots and pears on the walls swelled their ruddy cheeks under the hot rays of a July sun and the brethren rested at their ease, stretched out in the shade of quiet arbours and trees. The pigeons cooed on the roof, and at the foot of the Crucifix, where the sun shone hottest, lay the lazy old convent cat, her green eyes sleepily closed.
Suddenly a wild noise was heard at the gate, the neighing of horses and barking of dogs, blasts on the horn and confused shouting; the brethren sprang, up in alarm. Donatus and Eusebius hurried up. ”For G.o.d's sake, venerable Abbot--there is a splendid riding party at the gate, desiring to be admitted,” they called out, ”What shall we do?”
”What we cannot avoid doing--give them what they require.”
”Oh, dear!” lamented fat old Wyso, who had been brought out by the alarm and who could hardly walk for old age and swelled feet. ”Oh, dear! they will eat us up like the Egyptian locusts--do not let them in--or ask first who they are. We are not bound to harbour any one but the lords of the soil and they have already left us poor.”
”Good brother Wyso,” said the Abbot smiling, ”if it pleased the Lord to let a swarm of locusts fall upon us, should we not be obliged to submit? so submit to these and act cordially with us in showing hospitality.”
Thus speaking they had reached the gate and the Abbot himself opened it and met the impatient troop with a dignified demeanour.
High above him on horseback sat a number of n.o.bles with a crowd of followers. The gay robes of silk and velvet, trimmed with costly furs, shone splendidly in the sun. Men and beasts were bathed in sweat from their hot ride up the steep hill.
”_Deo gratias_, n.o.ble gentlemen,” said the Abbot. ”If you are satisfied to accept what a poor, out-of-the-world mountain-convent has to offer, step in and be welcome in Christ's name.”
”Come in, as many as there is room for,” said the foremost horseman with a laugh, urging his prancing horse through the narrow doorway.
”G.o.d save you, my lord Abbot, I do not think you good folks here starve?” he added with a merry glance at Wyso, who was trying to keep his gouty feet in safety out of the way of the crowd of horses.
The knight guided his horse under a shed, in order to alight in the shade; as many of the others followed as could come in; the silent convent yard was like a bustling camp, the ma.s.s of horses and men were pressed so closely together in crowded confusion. The horses kicked out in every direction, not liking such close quarters; the hindermost forcing their way in, the foremost unable to go any farther in the narrow s.p.a.ce. There was pus.h.i.+ng and screaming, prancing and stamping.
Wyso escaped into the house, not without abusing the visitors, and even the other monks were frightened and startled out of their quiet life by the rough incursion of this high-handed party.
”Oh--locusts! locusts! you would be a lovely sight compared to these monsters!” Wyso lamented as he looked out of window.
At last all the horses were put up, some in the cattle stalls and some tied up in a row all round the walls, nay some--and this cut the brethren to the heart--some to the beautiful promising fruit trellises--the toil and care of many years all undone in an instant!
And the brethren looked with consternation as they saw great horses'
mouths with rolling tongues and sniffing nostrils poking about in the trees and eating what they took a fancy to, pending the arrival of better fare.
”What is to be done?” said the Abbot in a low voice to the brethren, ”We must submit! And this is a friendly incursion--think what it would be if it were a hostile invasion--G.o.d preserve us!”
Meanwhile the marauding visitors had without farther ado overrun the hay lofts and brought down fodder for their horses, and to facilitate the beasts' enjoyment of it they stuffed it between the bars of the fruit trellises, for there were no mangers in the convent. The pack of dogs let loose in the little garden tore with wild howls across the flower beds in chase of the convent cat, who had little expected such visitors.
”Now, my lord Abbot,” said the foremost of the riders good-humouredly enough, but in a tone of rough command. ”Where are your cellarers? They should have appeared long ago to present us with a bowl of wine! True hospitality does not delay till the rider has his foot out of the stirrup.”
”You shall be served at once, my lords!” said the Abbot. ”You must take the will for the deed, for we are inexperienced and unaccustomed to receiving so many guests.”
”But if I am well-informed you have occasionally received your seignior, the Count of Matsch--or Amatia, as they prefer to call it, with all his following?”
”We are the va.s.sals of the Count of Matsch; it is an old right of our liege lords to visit us once a year,” answered the Abbot.
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