So the poor, little, motherless waif lived among the old monks at the
White Cross on the hill, thriving and growing apace until he had reached
eleven or twelve years of age; a slender, fair-haired little fellow,
with a strange, quiet serious manner.
“Poor little child!” Old Brother Benedict would sometimes say to the
others, “poor little child! The troubles in which he was born must have
broken his wits like a glass cup. What think ye he said to me to-day?
‘Dear Brother Benedict,’ said he, ‘dost thou shave the hair off of the
top of thy head so that the dear God may see thy thoughts the better?’
Think of that now!” and the good old man shook with silent laughter.
When such talk came to the good Father Abbot’s ears, he smiled quietly
to himself. “It may be,” said he, “that the wisdom of little children
flies higher than our heavy wits can follow.”
At least Otto was not slow with his studies, and Brother Emmanuel,
who taught him his lessons, said more than once that, if his wits were
cracked in other ways, they were sound enough in Latin.
Otto, in a quaint, simple way which belonged to him, was gentle
and obedient to all. But there was one among the Brethren of St.
Michaelsburg whom he loved far above all the rest--Brother John, a poor
half-witted fellow, of some twenty-five or thirty years of age. When
a very little child, he had fallen from his nurse’s arms and hurt his
head, and as he grew up into boyhood, and showed that his wits had been
addled by his fall, his family knew not what else to do with him, and
so sent him off to the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg, where he lived
his simple, witless life upon a sort of sufferance, as though he were a
tame, harmless animal.
While Otto was still a little baby, he had been given into Brother
John’s care. Thereafter, and until Otto had grown old enough to care for
himself, poor Brother John never left his little charge, night or day.
Oftentimes the good Father Abbot, coming into the garden, where he loved
to walk alone in his meditations, would find the poor, simple Brother
sitting under the shade of the pear-tree, close to the bee-hives,
rocking the little baby in his arms, singing strange, crazy songs to
it, and gazing far away into the blue, empty sky with his curious, pale
eyes.
Although, as Otto grew up into boyhood, his lessons and his tasks
separated him from Brother John, the bond between them seemed to grow
stronger rather than weaker. During the hours that Otto had for his own
they were scarcely ever apart. Down in the vineyard, where the monks
were gathering the grapes for the vintage, in the garden, or in the
fields, the two were always seen together, either wandering hand in
hand, or seated in some shady nook or corner.
But most of all they loved to lie up in the airy wooden belfry; the
great gaping bell hanging darkly above them, the mouldering cross-beams
glimmering far up under the dim shadows of the roof, where dwelt a great
brown owl that, unfrightened at their familiar presence, stared down at
them with his round, solemn eyes. Below them stretched the white walls
of the garden, beyond them the vineyard, and beyond that again the far
shining river, that seemed to Otto’s mind to lead into wonder-land.
There the two would lie upon the belfry floor by the hour, talking
together of the strangest things.
“I saw the dear Angel Gabriel again yester morn,” said Brother John.
“So!” says Otto, seriously; “and where was that?”
“It was out in the garden, in the old apple-tree,” said Brother John. “I
was walking there, and my wits were running around in the grass like a
mouse. What heard I but a wonderful sound of singing, and it was like
the hum of a great bee, only sweeter than honey. So I looked up into the
tree, and there I saw two sparks. I thought at first that they were
two stars that had fallen out of heaven; but what think you they were,
little child?”
“I do not know,” said Otto, breathlessly.
“They were angel’s eyes,” said Brother John; and he smiled in the
strangest way, as he gazed up into the blue sky. “So I looked at the two
sparks and felt happy, as one does in spring time when the cold weather
is gone, and the warm sun shines, and the cuckoo sings again. Then,
by-and-by, I saw the face to which the eyes belonged. First, it shone
white and thin like the moon in the daylight; but it grew brighter and
brighter, until it hurt one’s eyes to look at it, as though it had been
the blessed sun itself. Angel Gabriel’s hand was as white as silver, and
in it he held a green bough with blossoms, like those that grow on the
thorn bush. As for his robe, it was all of one piece, and finer than the
Father Abbot’s linen, and shone beside like the sunlight on pure snow.
So I knew from all these things that it was the blessed Angel Gabriel.”
“‘What do they say about this tree, Brother John?’ said he to me.
“‘They say it is dying, my Lord Angel,’ said I, ‘and that the gardener
will bring a sharp axe and cut it down.’
“‘And what dost thou say about it, Brother John?’ said he.
“‘I also say yes, and that it is dying,’ said I.
“At that he smiled until his face shone so bright that I had to shut my
eyes.
“‘Now I begin to believe, Brother John, that thou art as foolish as men
say,’ said he. ‘Look, till I show thee.’ And thereat I opened mine eyes
again.
“Then Angel Gabriel touched the dead branches with the flowery twig that
he held in his hand, and there was the dead wood all covered with green
leaves, and fair blossoms and beautiful apples as yellow as gold. Each
smelling more sweetly than a garden of flowers, and better to the taste
than white bread and honey.
“‘They are souls of the apples,’ said the good Angel, ‘and they can
never wither and die.’
“‘Then I’ll tell the gardener that he shall not cut the tree down,’ said
I.
“‘No, no,’ said the dear Gabriel, ‘that will never do, for if the tree
is not cut down here on the earth, it can never be planted in paradise.’”
Here Brother John stopped short in his story, and began singing one of
his crazy songs, as he gazed with his pale eyes far away into nothing at
all.
“But tell me, Brother John,” said little Otto, in a hushed voice, “what
else did the good Angel say to thee?”
Brother John stopped short in his song and began looking from right to
left, and up and down, as though to gather his wits.
“So!” said he, “there was something else that he told me. Tschk! If I
could but think now. Yes, good! This is it--‘Nothing that has lived,’
said he, ‘shall ever die, and nothing that has died shall ever live.’”
Otto drew a deep breath. “I would that I might see the beautiful Angel
Gabriel sometime,” said he; but Brother John was singing again and did
not seem to hear what he said.
Next to Brother John, the nearest one to the little child was the good
Abbot Otto, for though he had never seen wonderful things with the eyes
of his soul, such as Brother John’s had beheld, and so could not tell of
them, he was yet able to give little Otto another pleasure that no one
else could give.
He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock and key
wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and metal, and with
covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with precious stones. But
within these covers, beautiful as they were, lay the real wonder of the
books, like the soul in the body; for there, beside the black letters
and initials, gay with red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures
painted upon the creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin
with the golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings;
the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with glories
about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the blue sky above.
But, most beautiful of all was the picture of the Christ Child lying in
the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine gazing at him.
Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where these
treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing the few grains
of dust from them, would lay them upon the table beside the oriel window
in front of his little namesake, allowing the little boy freedom to turn
the leaves as he chose.
Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ Child in
the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds, and the Kine.
And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and gazing upon it, the old
Abbot would sit watching him with a faint, half-sad smile flickering
around his thin lips and his pale, narrow face.
It was a pleasant, peaceful life, but by-and-by the end came. Otto was
now nearly twelve years old.
One bright, clear day, near the hour of noon, little Otto heard the
porter’s bell sounding below in the court-yard--dong! dong! Brother
Emmanuel had been appointed as the boy’s instructor, and just then Otto
was conning his lessons in the good monk’s cell. Nevertheless, at the
sound of the bell he pricked up his ears and listened, for a visitor was
a strange matter in that out-of-the-way place, and he wondered who it
could be. So, while his wits wandered his lessons lagged.
“Postera Phoeba lustrabat lampade terras,” continued Brother Emmanuel,
inexorably running his horny finger-nail beneath the line, “humentemque
Aurora polo dimoverat umbram--” the lesson dragged along.
Just then a sandaled footstep sounded without, in the stone corridor,
and a light tap fell upon Brother Emmanuel’s door. It was Brother
Ignatius, and the Abbot wished little Otto to come to the refectory.
As they crossed the court-yard Otto stared to see a group of mail-clad
men-at-arms, some sitting upon their horses, some standing by the
saddle-bow. “Yonder is the young baron,” he heard one of them say in a
gruff voice, and thereupon all turned and stared at him.
A stranger was in the refectory, standing beside the good old Abbot,
while food and wine were being brought and set upon the table for his
refreshment; a great, tall, broad-shouldered man, beside whom the Abbot
looked thinner and slighter than ever.
The stranger was clad all in polished and gleaming armor, of plate and
chain, over which was drawn a loose robe of gray woollen stuff, reaching
to the knees and bound about the waist by a broad leathern sword-belt.
Upon his arm he carried a great helmet which he had just removed from
his head. His face was weather-beaten and rugged, and on lip and chin
was a wiry, bristling beard; once red, now frosted with white.
Brother Ignatius had bidden Otto to enter, and had then closed the door
behind him; and now, as the lad walked slowly up the long room, he gazed
with round, wondering blue eyes at the stranger.
“Dost know who I am, Otto? said the mail-clad knight, in a deep,
growling voice.
“Methinks you are my father, sir,” said Otto.
“Aye, thou art right,” said Baron Conrad, “and I am glad to see that
these milk-churning monks have not allowed thee to forget me, and who
thou art thyself.”
“An’ it please you,” said Otto, “no one churneth milk here but
Brother Fritz; we be makers of wine and not makers of butter, at St.
Michaelsburg.”
Baron Conrad broke into a great, loud laugh, but Abbot Otto’s sad and
thoughtful face lit up with no shadow of an answering smile.
“Conrad,” said he, turning to the other, “again let me urge thee; do
not take the child hence, his life can never be your life, for he is not
fitted for it. I had thought,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “I had
thought that thou hadst meant to consecrate him--this motherless one--to
the care of the Universal Mother Church.”
“So!” said the Baron, “thou hadst thought that, hadst thou? Thou hadst
thought that I had intended to deliver over this boy, the last of the
Vuelphs, to the arms of the Church? What then was to become of our name
and the glory of our race if it was to end with him in a monastery? No,
Drachenhausen is the home of the Vuelphs, and there the last of the race
shall live as his sires have lived before him, holding to his rights by
the power and the might of his right hand.”
The Abbot turned and looked at the boy, who was gaping in simple
wide-eyed wonderment from one to the other as they spoke.
“And dost thou think, Conrad,” said the old man, in his gentle, patient
voice, “that that poor child can maintain his rights by the strength of
his right hand?”
The Baron’s look followed the Abbot’s, and he said nothing.
In the few seconds of silence that followed, little Otto, in his simple
mind, was wondering what all this talk portended. Why had his father
come hither to St. Michaelsburg, lighting up the dim silence of the
monastery with the flash and ring of his polished armor? Why had he
talked about churning butter but now, when all the world knew that the
monks of St. Michaelsburg made wine.
It was Baron Conrad’s deep voice that broke the little pause of silence.
“If you have made a milkmaid of the boy,” he burst out at last, “I thank
the dear heaven that there is yet time to undo your work and to make a
man of him.”
The Abbot sighed. “The child is yours, Conrad,” said he, “the will of
the blessed saints be done. Mayhap if he goes to dwell at Drachenhausen
he may make you the better instead of you making him the worse.”
Then light came to the darkness of little Otto’s wonderment; he saw what
all this talk meant and why his father had come hither. He was to leave
the happy, sunny silence of the dear White Cross, and to go out into
that great world that he had so often looked down upon from the high
windy belfry on the steep hillside.