THE MONK AND THE HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER_The monk and the hangman's daughter

On the first day of May in the year of our Blessed Lord 1680, the

Franciscan monks Ægidius, Romanus and Ambrosius were sent by their

Superior from the Christian city of Passau to the Monastery of

Berchtesgaden, near Salzburg. I, Ambrosius, was the strongest and

youngest of the three, being but twenty-one years of age.

The Monastery of Berchtesgaden was, we knew, in a wild and mountainous

country, covered with dismal forests, which were infested with bears

and evil spirits; and our hearts were filled with sadness to think what

might become of us in so dreadful a place. But since it is Christian

duty to obey the mandates of the Church, we did not complain, and were

even glad to serve the wish of our beloved and revered Superior.

Having received the benediction, and prayed for the last time in the

church of our Saint, we tied up our cowls, put new sandals on our feet,

and set out, attended by the blessings of all. Although the way was

long and perilous, we did not lose our hope, for hope is not only the

beginning and the end of religion, but also the strength of youth and

the support of age. Therefore our hearts soon forgot the sadness of

parting, and rejoiced in the new and varying scenes that gave us our

first real knowledge of the beauty of the earth as God has made it. The

colour and brilliance of the air were like the garment of the Blessed

Virgin; the sun shone like the Golden Heart of the Saviour, from which

streameth light and life for all mankind; the dark blue canopy that hung

above formed a grand and beautiful house of prayer, in which every blade

of grass, every flower and living creature praised the glory of God.

As we passed through the many hamlets, villages and cities that lay

along our way, the thousands of people, busy in all the vocations of

life, presented to us poor monks a new and strange spectacle, which

filled us with wonder and admiration. When so many churches came into

view as we journeyed on, and the piety and ardour of the people were

made manifest by the acclamations with which they hailed us and their

alacrity in ministering to our needs, our hearts were full of gratitude

and happiness. All the institutions of the Church were prosperous and

wealthy, which showed that they had found favour in the sight of the

good God whom we serve. The gardens and orchards of the monasteries

and convents were well kept, proving the care and industry of the pious

peasantry and the holy inmates of the cloisters. It was glorious to hear

the peals of bells announcing the hours of the day: we actually breathed

music in the air--the sweet tones were like the notes of angels singing

praise to the Lord.

Wherever we went we greeted the people in the name of our patron Saint.

On all sides were manifest humility and joy: women and children hastened

to the wayside, crowding about us to kiss our hands and beseech a

blessing. It almost seemed as if we were no longer poor servitors of God

and man, but lords and masters of this whole beautiful earth. Let us,

however, not grow proud in spirit, but remain humble, looking carefully

into our hearts lest we deviate from the rules of our holy Order and sin

against our blessed Saint.

I, Brother Ambrosius, confess with penitence and shame that my soul

caught itself upon exceedingly worldly and sinful thoughts. It seemed to

me that the women sought more eagerly to kiss my hands than those of my

companions--which surely was not right, since I am not more holy than

they; besides, I am younger and less experienced and tried in the fear

and commandments of the Lord. When I observed this error of the women,

and saw how the maidens kept their eyes upon me, I became frightened,

and wondered if I could resist should temptation accost me; and often I

thought, with fear and trembling, that vows and prayer and penance alone

do not make one a saint; one must be so pure in heart that temptation is

unknown. Ah me!

At night we always lodged in some monastery, invariably receiving a

pleasant welcome. Plenty of food and drink was set before us, and as we

sat at table the monks would crowd about, asking for news of the great

world of which it was our blessed privilege to see and learn so much.

When our destination was learned we were usually pitied for being

doomed to live in the mountain wilderness. We were told of ice-fields,

snow-crowned mountains and tremendous rocks, roaring torrents, caves and

gloomy forests; also of a lake so mysterious and terrible that there was

none like it in the world. God be with us!

On the fifth day of our journey, while but a short distance beyond the

city of Salzburg, we saw a strange and ominous sight. On the horizon,

directly in our front, lay a bank of mighty clouds, with many grey

points and patches of darker hue, and above, between them and the blue

sky, a second firmament of perfect white. This spectacle greatly puzzled

and alarmed us. The clouds had no movement; we watched them for hours

and could see no change. Later in the afternoon, when the sun was

sinking into the west, they became ablaze with light. They glowed and

gleamed in a wonderful manner, and looked at times as if they were on

fire!

No one can imagine our surprise when we discovered that what we had

mistaken for clouds was simply earth and rocks. These, then, were the

mountains of which we had heard so much, and the white firmament was

nothing else than the snowy summit of the range--which the Lutherans say

their faith can remove. I greatly doubt it.

When we stood at the opening of the pass leading into the mountains we

were overcome with dejection; it looked like the mouth of Hell. Behind

us lay the beautiful country through which we had come, and which now

we were compelled to leave forever; before us frowned the mountains with

their inhospitable gorges and haunted forests, forbidding to the sight

and full of peril to the body and the soul. Strengthening our hearts

with prayer and whispering anathemas against evil spirits, we entered

the narrow pass in the name of God, and pressed forward, prepared to

suffer whatever might befall.

As we proceeded cautiously on our way giant trees barred our progress

and dense foliage almost shut out the light of day, the darkness being

deep and chill. The sound of our footfalls and of our voices, when we

dared to speak, was returned to us from the great rocks bordering the

pass, with such distinctness and so many repetitions, yet withal so

changed, that we could hardly believe we were not accompanied by troops

of invisible beings who mocked us and made sport of our fears. Great

birds of prey, startled from their nests in the treetops and the sides

of the cliffs, perched upon high pinnacles of rock and eyed us malignly

as we passed; vultures and ravens croaked above us in hoarse and savage

tones that made our blood run cold. Nor could our prayers and hymns

give us peace; they only called forth other fowl and by their own echoes

multiplied the dreadful noises that beset us. It surprised us to observe

that huge trees had been plucked out of the earth by the roots and

hurled down the sides of the hills, and we shuddered to think by what

powerful hands this had been done. At times we passed along the edges of

high precipices, and the dark chasms that yawned below were a terrible

sight. A storm arose, and we were half-blinded by the fires of heaven

and stunned by thunder a thousand times louder than we had ever heard.

Our fears were at last worked up to so great a degree that we expected

every minute to see some devil from Hell leap from behind a rock in our

front, or a ferocious bear appear from the undergrowth to dispute our

progress. But only deer and foxes crossed our path, and our fears were

somewhat quieted to perceive that our blessed Saint was no less powerful

in the mountains than on the plains below.

At length we reached the bank of a stream whose silvery waters presented

a most refreshing sight. In its crystal depths between the rocks we

could see beautiful golden trout as large as the carp in the pond of

our monastery at Passau. Even in these wild places Heaven had provided

bountifully for the fasting of the faithful.

Beneath the black pines and close to the large lichen-covered rocks

bloomed rare flowers of dark blue and golden yellow. Brother Ægidius,

who was as learned as pious, knew them from his herbarium and told us

their names. We were delighted by the sight of various brilliant beetles

and butterflies which had come out of their hiding-places after the

rain. We gathered handfuls of flowers and chased the pretty winged

insects, forgetting our fears and prayers, the bears and evil spirits,

in the exuberance of our joy.

For many hours we had not seen a dwelling nor a human being. Deeper and

deeper we penetrated the mountain region; greater and greater became the

difficulties we experienced in forest and ravine, and all the horrors of

the wilderness that we had already passed were repeated, but without so

great an effect upon our souls, for we all perceived that the good God

was preserving us for longer service to His holy will. A branch of the

friendly river lay in our course, and, approaching it, we were delighted

to find it spanned by a rough but substantial bridge. As we were about

to cross I happened to cast my eyes to the other shore, where I saw a

sight that made my blood turn cold with terror. On the opposite bank

of the stream was a meadow, covered with beautiful flowers, and in the

centre a gallows upon which hung the body of a man! The face was turned

toward us, and I could plainly distinguish the features, which, though

black and distorted, showed unmistakable signs that death had come that

very day.

I was upon the point of directing my companions’ attention to the

dreadful spectacle, when a strange incident occurred: in the meadow

appeared a young girl, with long golden hair, upon which rested a wreath

of blossoms. She wore a bright red dress, which seemed to me to light up

the whole scene like a flame of fire. Nothing in her actions indicated

fear of the corpse upon the gallows; on the contrary, she glided toward

it barefooted through the grass, singing in a loud but sweet voice, and

waving her arms to scare away the birds of prey that had gathered

about it, uttering harsh cries and with a great buffeting of wings and

snapping of beaks. At the girl’s approach they all took flight, except

one great vulture, which retained its perch upon the gallows and

appeared to defy and threaten her. She ran close up to the obscene

creature, jumping, dancing, screaming, until it, too, put out its wide

wings and flapped heavily away. Then she ceased her dancing, and, taking

a position at the gibbet’s foot, calmly and thoughtfully looked up at

the swinging body of the unfortunate man.

The maiden’s singing had attracted the attention of my companions, and

we all stood watching the lovely child and her strange surroundings with

too much amazement to speak.

While gazing on the surprising scene, I felt a cold shiver run through

my body. This is said to be a sure sign that someone has stepped upon

the spot which is to be your grave. Strange to say, I felt this chill at

the moment the maiden stepped under the gallows. But this only shows how

the true beliefs of men are mixed up with foolish superstitions; for how

could a sincere follower of Saint Franciscus possibly come to be buried

beneath a gallows?

‘Let us hasten,’ I said to my companions, ‘and pray for the soul of the

dead.’

We soon found our way to the spot, and, without raising our eyes, said

prayers with great fervour; especially did I, for my heart was full of

compassion for the poor sinner who hung above. I recalled the words of

God, who said, ‘Vengeance is mine,’ and remembered that the dear Saviour

had pardoned the thief upon the cross at His side; and who knows that

there were not mercy and forgiveness for this poor wretch who had died

upon the gallows?

On our approach the maiden had retired a short distance, not knowing

what to make of us and our prayers. Suddenly, however, in the midst of

our devotions, I heard her sweet, bell-like tones exclaim: ‘The vulture!

the vulture!’ and her voice was agitated, as if she felt great fear. I

looked up and saw a great grey bird above the pines, swooping downward.

It showed no fear of us, our sacred calling and our pious rites. My

brothers, however, were indignant at the interruption caused by the

child’s voice, and scolded her. But I said: ‘The girl is probably a

relation of the dead man. Now think of it, brothers; this terrible bird

comes to tear the flesh from his face and feed upon his hands and his

body. It is only natural that she should cry out.’

One of the brothers said: ‘Go to her, Ambrosius, and command her to be

silent that we may pray in peace for the departed soul of this sinful

man.’

I walked among the fragrant flowers to where the girl stood with her

eyes still fixed upon the vulture, which swung in ever narrowing circles

about the gallows. Against a mass of silvery flowers on a bush by which

she stood the maid’s exquisite figure showed to advantage, as I wickedly

permitted myself to observe. Perfectly erect and motionless, she watched

my advance, though I marked a terrified look in her large, dark eyes, as

if she feared that I would do her harm. Even when I was quite near her

she made no movement to come forward, as women and children usually did,

and kiss my hands.

‘Who are you?’ I said, ‘and what are you doing in this dreadful place

all alone?’

She did not answer me, and made neither sign nor motion; so I repeated

my question:

‘Tell me, child, what are you doing here?’

‘Scaring away the vultures,’ she replied, in a soft, musical voice,

inexpressibly pleasing.

‘Are you a relation of the dead man?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘You knew him?’ I continued, ‘and you pity his unchristian death?’

But she was again silent, and I had to renew my questioning: ‘What was

his name, and why was he put to death? What crime did he commit?’

‘His name was Nathaniel Alfinger, and he killed a man for a woman,’ said

the maiden, distinctly and in the most unconcerned manner that it is

possible to conceive, as if murder and hanging were the commonest and

most uninteresting of all events. I was astounded, and gazed at her

sharply, but her look was passive and calm, denoting nothing unusual.

‘Did you know Nathaniel Alfinger?’

‘No.’

‘Yet you came here to protect his corpse from the fowls?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you do that service to one whom you did not know?’

‘I always do so.’

‘How--!’

‘Always when any one is hanged here I come and frighten away the birds

and make them find other food. See--there is another vulture!’

She uttered a wild, high scream, threw her arms above her head, and ran

across the meadow so that I thought her mad. The big bird flew away,

and the maiden came quietly back to me, and, pressing her sunburnt hands

upon her breast, sighed deeply, as from fatigue. With as much mildness

as I could put into my voice, I asked her:

‘What is your name?’

‘Benedicta.’

‘And who are your parents?’

‘My mother is dead.’

‘But your father--where is he?’

She was silent. Then I pressed her to tell me where she lived, for

I wanted to take the poor child home and admonish her father to have

better care of his daughter and not let her stray into such dreadful

places again.

‘Where do you live, Benedicta? I pray you tell me.’

‘Here.’

‘What! here? Ah, my child, here is only the gallows.’

She pointed toward the pines. Following the direction of her finger, I

saw among the trees a wretched hut which looked like a habitation more

fit for animals than human beings. Then I knew better than she could

have told me whose child she was.

When I returned to my companions and they asked me who the girl was, I

answered: ‘The hangman’s daughter.’

Having commended the soul of the dead man to the intercession of the

Blessed Virgin and the Holy Saints, we left the accursed spot, but as

we withdrew I looked back at the lovely child of the hangman. She stood

where I had left her, looking after us. Her fair white brow was still

crowned with the wreath of primroses, which gave an added charm to her

wonderful beauty of feature and expression, and her large, dark eyes

shone like the stars of a winter midnight. My companions, to whom the

hangman’s daughter was a most unchristian object, reproved me for the

interest that I manifested in her; but it made me sad to think this

sweet and beautiful child was shunned and despised through no fault of

her own. Why should she be made to suffer blame because of her father’s

dreadful calling? And was it not the purest Christian charity which

prompted this innocent maiden to keep the vultures from the body of a

fellow-creature whom in life she had not even known and who had been

adjudged unworthy to live? It seemed to me a more kindly act than that

of any professed Christian who bestows money upon the poor. Expressing

these feelings to my companions, I found, to my sorrow, that they did

not share them; on the contrary, I was called a dreamer and a fool who

wished to overthrow the ancient and wholesome customs of the world.

Everyone, they said, was bound to execrate the class to which the

hangman and his family belonged, for all who associated with such

persons would surely be contaminated. I had, however, the temerity to

remain steadfast in my conviction, and with due humility questioned the

justice of treating such persons as criminals because they were a part

of the law’s machinery by which criminals were punished. Because in the

church the hangman and his family had a dark corner specially set apart

for them, that could not absolve us from our duty as servants of the

Lord to preach the gospel of justice and mercy and give an example of

Christian love and charity. But my brothers grew very angry with me, and

the wilderness rang with their loud vociferations, so that I began to

feel as if I were very wicked, although unable to perceive my error. I

could do nothing but hope that Heaven would be more merciful to us all

than we are to one another. In thinking of the maiden it gave me comfort

to know that her name was Benedicta. Perhaps her parents had so named

her as a means of blessing to one whom no one else would ever bless.

But I must relate what a wonderful country it was into which we were now

arrived. Were we not assured that all the world is the Lord’s, for He

made it, we might be tempted to think such a wild region the kingdom of

the Evil One.

Far down below our path the river roared and foamed between great

cliffs, the grey points of which seemed to pierce the very sky. On our

left, as we gradually rose out of this chasm, was a black forest of

pines, frightful to see, and in front of us a most formidable peak.

This mountain, despite its terrors, had a comical appearance, for it was

white and pointed like a fool’s cap, and looked as if some one had put a

flour-sack on the knave’s head. After all, it was nothing but snow. Snow

in the middle of the glorious month of May!--surely the works of God are

wonderful and almost past belief! The thought came to me that if this

old mountain should shake his head the whole region would be full of

flying snow.

We were not a little surprised to find that in various places along our

road the forest had been cleared away for a space large enough to build

a hut and plant a garden. Some of these rude dwellings stood where

one would have thought that only eagles would have been bold enough to

build; but there is no place, it seems, free from the intrusion of Man,

who stretches out his hand for everything, even that which is in the

air. When at last we arrived at our destination and beheld the temple

and the house erected in this wilderness to the name and glory of our

beloved Saint, our hearts were thrilled with pious emotions. Upon the

surface of a pine-covered rock was a cluster of huts and houses, the

monastery in the midst, like a shepherd surrounded by his flock. The

church and monastery were of hewn stone, of noble architecture, spacious

and comfortable.

May the good God bless our entrance into this holy place.

I have now been in this wilderness for a few weeks, but the Lord, too,

is here, as everywhere. My health is good, and this house of our beloved

Saint is a stronghold of the Faith, a house of peace, an asylum for

those who flee from the wrath of the Evil One, a rest for all who bear

the burden of sorrow. Of myself, however, I cannot say so much. I am

young, and although my mind is at peace, I have so little experience of

the world and its ways that I feel myself peculiarly liable to error and

accessible to sin. The course of my life is like a rivulet which draws

its silver thread smoothly and silently through friendly fields and

flowery meadows, yet knows that when the storms come and the rains fall

it may become a raging torrent, defiled with earth and whirling away to

the sea the wreckage attesting the madness of its passion and its power.

Not sorrow nor despair drew me away from the world into the sacred

retreat of the Church, but a sincere desire to serve the Lord. My only

wish is to belong to my beloved Saint, to obey the blessed mandates of

the Church, and, as a servant of God, to be charitable to all mankind,

whom I dearly love. The Church is, in truth, my beloved mother, for, my

parents having died in my infancy I, too, might have perished without

care had she not taken pity on me, fed and clothed me and reared me as

her own child. And, oh, what happiness there will be for me, poor monk,

when I am ordained and receive holy orders as a priest of the Most High

God! Always I think and dream of it and try to prepare my soul for

that high and sacred gift. I know I can never be worthy of this great

happiness, but I do hope to be an honest and sincere priest, serving God

and Man according to the light that is given from above. I often pray

Heaven to put me to the test of temptation, that I may pass through

the fire unscathed and purified in mind and soul. As it is, I feel the

sovereign peace which, in this solitude, lulls my spirit to sleep, and

all life’s temptations and trials seem far away, like perils of the sea

to one who can but faintly hear the distant thunder of the waves upon

the beach.

Our Superior, Father Andreas, is a mild and pious gentleman. Our

brothers live in peace and harmony. They are not idle, neither are they

worldly nor arrogant. They are temperate, not indulging too much in the

pleasures of the table--a praiseworthy moderation, for all this region,

far and wide--the hills and the valleys, the river and forest, with all

that they contain--belongs to the monastery. The woods are full of all

kinds of game, of which the choicest is brought to our table, and we

relish it exceedingly. In our monastery a drink is prepared from malt

and barley--a strong, bitter drink, refreshing after fatigue, but not,

to my taste, very good.

The most remarkable thing in this part of the country is the

salt-mining. I am told that the mountains are full of salt--how

wonderful are the works of the Lord! In pursuit of this mineral Man

has penetrated deep into the bowels of the earth by means of shafts and

tunnels, and brings forth the bitter marrow of the hills into the

light of the sun. The salt I have myself seen in red, brown and yellow

crystals. The works give employment to our peasants and their sons, with

a few foreign labourers, all under the command of an overseer, who is

known as the Saltmaster. He is a stern man, exercising great power, but

our Superior and the brothers speak little good of him--not from any

unchristian spirit, but because his actions are evil. The Saltmaster has

an only son. His name is Rochus, a handsome but wild and wicked youth.

The people hereabout are a proud, stubborn race. I am told that in an

old chronicle they are described as descendants of the Romans, who

in their day drove many tunnels into these mountains to get out the

precious salt; and some of these tunnels are still in existence. From

the window of my cell I can see these giant hills and the black forests

which at sunset burn like great firebrands along the crests against the

sky.

The forefathers of these people (after the Romans) were, I am told, more

stubborn still than they are, and continued in idolatry after all the

neighbouring peoples had accepted the cross of the Lord our Saviour.

Now, however, they bow their stiff necks to the sacred symbol and soften

their hearts to receive the living truth. Powerful as they are in body,

in spirit they are humble and obedient to the Word. Nowhere else did the

people kiss my hand so fervently as here, although I am not a priest--an

evidence of the power and victory of our glorious faith.

Physically they are strong and exceedingly handsome in face and figure,

especially the young men; the elder men, too, walk as erect and proud as

kings. The women have long golden hair, which they braid and twist about

their heads very beautifully, and they love to adorn themselves with

jewels. Some have eyes whose dark brilliancy rivals the lustre of the

rubies and garnets they wear about their white necks. I am told that

the young men fight for the young women as stags for does. Ah, what

wicked passions exist in the hearts of men! But since I know nothing of

these things, nor shall ever feel such unholy emotions, I must not judge

and condemn.

Lord, what a blessing is the peace with which Thou hast filled the

spirits of those who are Thine own! Behold, there is no turmoil in my

breast; all is calm there as in the soul of a babe which calls ‘Abba,’

dear Father. And so may it ever be.

I have again seen the hangman’s beautiful daughter. As the bells were

chiming for mass I saw her in front of the monastery church. I had just

come from the bedside of a sick man, and as my thoughts were gloomy the

sight of her face was pleasant, and I should have liked to greet her,

but her eyes were cast down: she did not notice me. The square in front

of the church was filled with people, the men and youths on one side, on

the other the women and maidens all clad in their high hats and adorned

with their gold chains. They stood close together, but when the poor

child approached all stepped aside, whispering and looking askance at

her as if she were an accursed leper and they feared infection.

Compassion filled my breast, compelling me to follow the maiden, and,

overtaking her, I said aloud:

‘God greet you, Benedicta.’

She shrank away as if frightened, then, looking up, recognised me,

seemed astonished, blushed again and again and finally hung her head in

silence.

‘Do you fear to speak to me?’ I asked.

But she made no reply. Again I spoke to her: ‘Do good, obey the Lord and

fear no one: then shall you be saved.’

At this she drew a long sigh, and replied in a low voice, hardly more

than a whisper: ‘I thank you, my lord.’

‘I am not a lord, Benedicta,’ I said, ‘but a poor servant of God, who

is a gracious and kind Father to all His children, however lowly their

estate. Pray to Him when your heart is heavy, and He will be near you.’

While I spoke she lifted her head and looked at me like a sad child that

is being comforted by its mother. And, still speaking to her out of the

great compassion in my heart, I led her into the church before all the

people.

But do thou, O holy Franciscus, pardon the sin that I committed during

that high sacrament! For while Father Andreas was reciting the solemn

words of the mass my eyes constantly wandered to the spot where the poor

child knelt in a dark corner set apart for her and her father, forsaken

and alone. She seemed to pray with holy zeal, and surely thou didst

grace her with a ray of thy favour, for it was through thy love of

mankind that thou didst become a great saint, and didst bring before the

Throne of Grace thy large heart, bleeding for the sins of all the world.

Then shall not I, the humblest of thy followers, have enough of thy

spirit to pity this poor outcast who suffers for no sin of her own? Nay,

I feel for her a peculiar tenderness, which I cannot help accepting as a

sign from Heaven that I am charged with a special mandate to watch over

her, to protect her, and finally to save her soul.

Our Superior has sent for me and rebuked me. He told me I had caused

great ill-feeling among the brothers and the people, and asked what

devil had me in possession that I should walk into church with the

daughter of the public hangman.

What could I say but that I pitied the poor maiden and could not do

otherwise than as I did?

‘Why did you pity her?’ he asked.

‘Because all the people shun her,’ I replied, ‘as if she were mortal

sin itself, and because she is wholly blameless. It certainly is not her

fault that her father is a hangman, nor his either, since, alas, hangmen

must be.’

Ah, beloved Franciscus, how the Superior scolded thy poor servant for

these bold words.

‘And do you repent?’ he demanded at the close of his reproof. But how

could I repent of my compassion--incited, as I verily believe, by our

beloved Saint?

On learning my obduracy, the Superior became very sad. He gave me a long

lecture and put me under hard penance. I took my punishment meekly

and in silence, and am now confined to my cell, fasting and chastising

myself. Nor in this do I spare myself at all, for it is happiness to

suffer for the sake of one so unjustly treated as the poor friendless

child.

I stand at the grating of my cell, looking out at the high, mysterious

mountains showing black against the evening sky. The weather being mild,

I open the window behind the bars to admit the fresh air and better

to hear the song of the stream below, which speaks to me with a divine

companionship, gentle and consoling.

I know not if I have already mentioned that the monastery is built upon

a rock high over the river. Directly under the windows of our cells are

the rugged edges of great cliffs, which none can scale but at the peril

of his life. Imagine, then, my astonishment when I saw a living figure

lift itself up from the awful abyss by the strength of its hands, and,

drawing itself across the edge, stand erect upon the very verge! In the

dusk I could not make out what kind of creature it was; I thought

it some evil spirit come to tempt me; so I crossed myself and said a

prayer. Presently there is a movement of its arm, and something flies

through the window, past my head, and lies upon the floor of my cell,

shining like a white star. I bend and pick it up. It is a bunch of

flowers such as I have never seen--leafless, white as snow, soft as

velvet, and without fragrance. As I stand by the window, the better to

see the wondrous flowers, my eyes turn again to the figure on the cliff,

and I hear a sweet, low voice, which says: ‘I am Benedicta, and I thank

you.’

Ah, Heaven! it was the child, who, that she might greet me in my

loneliness and penance, had climbed the dreadful rocks, heedless of the

danger. She knew, then, of my punishment--knew that it was for her.

She knew even the very cell in which I was confined. O holy Saint!

surely she could not have known all this but from thee; and I were worse

than an infidel to doubt that the feeling which I have for her signifies

that a command has been laid upon me to save her.

I saw her bending over the frightful precipice. She turned a moment and

waved her hand to me and disappeared. I uttered an involuntary cry--had

she fallen? I grasped the iron bars of my window and shook them with all

my strength, but they did not yield. In my despair I threw myself upon

the floor, crying and praying to all the saints to protect the dear

child in her dangerous descent if still she lived, to intercede for her

unshriven soul if she had fallen. I was still kneeling when Benedicta

gave me a sign of her safe arrival below. It was such a shout as these

mountaineers utter in their untamed enjoyment of life--only Benedicta’s

shout, coming from far below in the gorge, and mingled with its own

strange echoes, sounded like nothing I had ever heard from any human

throat, and so affected me that I wept, and the tears fell upon the wild

flowers in my hand.

As a follower of Saint Francisais, I am not permitted to own anything

dear to my heart, so I have disposed of my most precious treasure; I

have presented to my beloved Saint the beautiful flowers which were

Benedicta’s offering. They are so placed before his picture in the

monastery church as to decorate the bleeding heart which he carries upon

his breast as a symbol of his suffering for mankind.

I have learned the name of the flower: because of its colour, and

because it is finer than other flowers, it is called Edelweiss--noble

white. It grows in so rare perfection only upon the highest and wildest

rocks--mostly upon cliffs, over abysses many hundred feet in depth,

where one false step would be fatal to him who gathers it.

These beautiful flowers, then, are the real evil spirits of this wild

region; they lure many mortals to a dreadful death. The brothers here

have told me that never a year passes but some shepherd, some hunter or

some bold youth, attracted by these wonderful blossoms, is lost in the

attempt to get them.

May God be merciful to all their souls!

I must have turned pale when one of the brothers reported at the supper

table that upon the picture of Saint Franciscus had been found a bunch

of edelweiss of such rare beauty as grows nowhere else in the country

but at the summit of a cliff which is more than a thousand feet high,

and overhangs a dreadful lake. The brothers tell wondrous tales of the

horrors of this lake--how wild its waters and how deep, and how the most

hideous spectres are seen along its shores or rising out of it.

Benedicta’s edelweiss, therefore, has caused great commotion and wonder,

for even among the boldest hunters there are few, indeed, who dare

to climb that cliff by the haunted lake. And the tender child has

accomplished the feat! She has gone quite alone to that horrible place,

and has climbed the almost vertical wall of the mountain to the green

spot where the flowers grow with which she was moved to greet me. I

doubt not that Heaven guarded her against mishap in order that I might

have a visible sign and token that I am charged with the duty of her

salvation.

Ah, thou poor sinless child, accurst in the eyes of the people, God hath

signified His care of thee, and in my heart I feel already something of

that adoration which shall be thy due when for thy purity and holiness

He shall bestow upon thy relics some signal mark of His favour, and the

Church shall declare thee blessed!

I have learned another thing that I will chronicle here. In this country

these flowers are the sign of a faithful love: the youth presents them

to his sweetheart, and the maidens decorate the hats of their lovers

with them. It is clear that, in expressing her gratitude to a humble

servant of the Church, Benedicta was moved, perhaps without knowing it,

to signify at the same time her love of the Church itself, although,

alas, she has yet too little cause.

As I ramble about here, day after day, I am becoming familiar with

every path in the forest, in the dark pass, and on the slopes of the

mountains.

I am often sent to the homes of the peasants, the hunters and the

shepherds, to carry either medicine to the sick or consolation to the

sad. The most reverend Superior has told me that as soon as I receive

holy orders I shall have to carry the sacraments to the dying, for I am

the youngest and the strongest of the brothers. In these high places it

sometimes occurs that a hunter or a shepherd falls from the rocks,

and after some days is found, still living. It is then the duty of the

priest to perform the offices of our holy religion at the bedside of

the sufferer, so that the blessed Saviour may be there to receive the

departing soul.

That I may be worthy of such grace, may our beloved Saint keep my heart

pure from every earthly passion and desire!

The monastery has celebrated a great festival, and I will report all

that occurred.

For many days before the event the brothers were busy preparing for

it. Some decorated the church with sprays of pine and birch and with

flowers.

They went with the other men and gathered the most beautiful Alpine

roses they could find, and as it is midsummer they grow in great

abundance. On the day before the festival the brothers sat in the

garden, weaving garlands to adorn the church; even the most reverend

Superior and the Fathers took pleasure in our merry task. They walked

beneath the trees and chatted pleasantly while encouraging the brother

butler to spend freely the contents of the cellars.

The next morning was the holy procession. It was very beautiful to see,

and added to the glory of our holy Church. The Superior walked under a

purple silken canopy, surrounded by the worthy Fathers, and bore in his

hands the sacred emblem of the crucifixion of our Saviour. We brothers

followed, bearing burning candles and singing psalms. Behind us came a

great crowd of the people, dressed in their finest attire.

The proudest of those in the procession were the mountaineers and the

salt-miners, the Saltmaster at their head on a beautiful horse adorned

with costly trappings. He was a proud-looking man, with his great sword

at his side and a plumed hat upon his broad, high brow. Behind him rode

Rochus, his son. When we had collected in front of the gate to form

a line I took special notice of that young man. I judged him to be

self-willed and bold. He wore his hat on the side of his head and cast

flaming glances upon the women and the maidens. He looked contemptuously

upon us monks. I fear he is not a good Christian, but he is the most

beautiful youth that I have ever seen: tall and slender like a young

pine, with light brown eyes and golden locks.

The Saltmaster is as powerful in this region as our Superior. He is

appointed by the Duke and has judicial powers in all affairs. He has

even the power of life and death over those accused of murder or any

other abominable crime. But the Lord has fortunately endowed him with

good judgment and wisdom.

Through the village the procession moved out into the valley and down to

the entrances of the great salt mines. In front of the principal mine an

altar was erected, and there our Superior read high mass, while all the

people knelt. I observed that the Salt-master and his son knelt and bent

their heads with visible reluctance and this made me very sad. After

the service the procession moved toward the hill called ‘Mount Calvary,’

which is still higher than the monastery, and from the top of which one

has a good view of the whole country below. There the reverend Superior

displayed the crucifix in order to banish the evil powers which abound

in these terrible mountains; and he also said prayers and pronounced

anathemas against all demons infesting the valley below. The bells

chimed their praises to the Lord, and it seemed as if divine voices were

ringing through the wilderness. It was all, indeed, most beautiful and

good.

I looked about me to see if the child of the hangman were present, but I

could not see her anywhere, and knew not whether to rejoice that she was

out of reach of the insults of the people or to mourn because deprived

of the spiritual strength that might have come to me from looking upon

her heavenly beauty.

After the services came the feast. Upon a meadow sheltered by trees

tables were spread, and the clergy and the people, the most reverend

Superior and the great Saltmaster partook of the viands served by the

young men. It was interesting to see the young men make big fires of

pine and maple, put great pieces of beef upon wooden spits, turn them

over the coals until they were brown, and then lay them before the

Fathers and the mountaineers. They also boiled mountain trout and carp

in large kettles. The wheaten bread was brought in immense baskets, and

as to drink, there was assuredly no scarcity of that, for the Superior

and the Saltmaster had each given a mighty cask of beer. Both of these

monstrous barrels lay on wooden stands under an ancient oak. The boys

and the Saltmaster’s men drew from the cask which he had given, while

that of the Superior was served by the brother butler and a number of

us younger monks. In honour of Saint Franciscus I must say that the

clerical barrel was of vastly greater size than that of the Saltmaster.

Separate tables had been provided for the Superior and the Fathers,

and for the Saltmaster and the best of his people. The Saltmaster and

Superior sat upon chairs which stood upon a beautiful carpet, and

their seats were screened from the sun by a linen canopy. At the table,

surrounded by their beautiful wives and daughters, sat many knights, who

had come from their distant castles to share in the great festival. I

helped at table. I handed the dishes and filled the goblets and was able

to see how good an appetite the company had, and how they loved that

brown and bitter drink. I could see also how amorously the Saltmaster’s

son looked at the ladies, which provoked me very much, as he could not

marry them all, especially those already married.

We had music, too. Some boys from the village, who practise on various

instruments in their spare moments, were the performers. Ah, how they

yelled, those flutes and pipes, and how the fiddle bows danced and

chirped! I do not doubt the music was very good, but Heaven has not seen

fit to give me the right kind of ears.

I am sure our blessed Saint must have derived great satisfaction from

the sight of so many people eating and drinking their bellies full.

Heavens! how they did eat--what unearthly quantities they did away with!

But that was nothing to their drinking. I firmly believe that if every

mountaineer had brought along a barrel of his own he would have emptied

it, all by himself. But the women seemed to dislike the beer, especially

the young girls. Usually before drinking a young man would hand his cup

to one of the maids, who barely touched it with her lips, and, making a

grimace, turned away her face. I am not sufficiently acquainted with the

ways of woman to say with certainty if this proved that at other times

they were so abstemious.

After eating, the young men played at various games which exhibited

their agility and strength. Holy Franciscus! what legs they have, what

arms and necks! They leapt, they wrestled with one another; it was like

the fighting of bears. The mere sight of it caused me to feel great

fear. It seemed as if they would crush one another. But the maidens

looked on, feeling neither fear nor anxiety; they giggled and appeared

well pleased. It was wonderful, too, to hear the voices of these young

mountaineers; they threw back their heads and shouted till the echoes

rang from the mountain-sides and roared in the gorges as if from the

throats of a legion of demons.

Foremost among all was the Saltmaster’s son. He sprang like a deer,

fought like a fiend, and bellowed like a wild bull. Among these

mountaineers he was a king. I observed that many were jealous of his

strength and beauty, and secretly hated him; yet all obeyed. It was

beautiful to see how this young man bent his slender body while leaping

and playing the games--how he threw up his head like a stag at gaze,

shook his golden locks and stood in the midst of his fellows with

flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes. How sad to think that pride and

passion should make their home in so lovely a body, which seems created

for the habitation of a soul that would glorify its Maker!

It was near dusk when the Superior, the Saltmaster, the Fathers and all

the distinguished guests parted and retired to their homes, leaving the

others at drink and dance. My duties compelled me to remain with the

brother butler to serve the debauching youths with beer from the great

cask. Young Rochus remained too. I do not know how it occurred, but

suddenly he stood before me. His looks were dark and his manner proud.

‘Are you,’ he said, ‘the monk who gave offence to the people the other

day?’

I asked humbly--though beneath my monk’s robe I felt a sinful anger:

‘What are you speaking of?’

‘As if you did not know!’ he said, haughtily. ‘Now bear in mind what I

tell you; if you ever show any friendship toward that girl I shall teach

you a lesson which you will not soon forget. You monks are likely to

call your impertinence by the name of some virtue; but I know the trick,

and will have none of it. Make a note of that, you young cowl=wearer,

for your handsome face and big eyes will not save you.’

With that he turned his back upon me and went away, but I heard his

strong voice ringing out upon the night as he sang and shouted with the

others. I was greatly alarmed to learn that this bold boy had cast his

eyes upon the hangman’s lovely daughter. His feeling for her was surely

not honourable, or, instead of hating me for being kind to her, he would

have been grateful and would have thanked me. I feared for the child,

and again and again did I promise my blessed Saint that I would watch

over and protect her, in obedience to the miracle which he has wrought

in my breast regarding her. With that wondrous feeling to urge me on,

I cannot be slack in my duty, and, Benedicta, thou shalt be saved--thy

body and thy soul!

Let me continue my report.

The boys threw dry brushwood into the fire so that the flames

illuminated the whole meadow and shone red upon the trees. Then they

laid hands upon the village maidens and began to turn and swing them

round and round. Holy saints! how they stamped and turned and threw

their hats in the air, kicked up their heels, and lifted the girls from

the ground, as if the sturdy wenches were nothing but feather balls!

They shouted and yelled as if all the evil spirits had them in

possession, so that I wished a herd of swine might come, that the devils

might leave these human brutes and go into the four-legged ones. The

boys were quite full of the brown beer, which for its bitterness and

strength is a beastly drink.

Before long the madness of intoxication broke out; they attacked one

another with fists and knives, and it looked as if they would do murder.

Suddenly the Saltmaster’s son, who had stood looking on, leaped among

them, caught two of the combatants by the hair and knocked their heads

together with such force that the blood started from their noses, and I

thought surely their skulls had been crushed like egg-shells; but they

must have been very hard-headed, for on being released they seemed

little the worse for their punishment. After much shouting and

screaming, Rochus succeeded in making peace, which seemed to me, poor

worm, quite heroic. The music set in again: the fiddles scraped and

the pipes shrieked, while the boys with torn clothes and scratched and

bleeding faces, renewed the dance as if nothing had occurred. Truly,

this is a people that would gladden the heart of a Bramarbas or a

Holofernes!

I had scarcely recovered from the fright which Rochus had given me, when

I was made to feel a far greater one. Rochus was dancing with a tall and

beautiful girl, who looked the very queen of this young king. They made

such mighty leaps and dizzy turns, but at the same time so graceful,

that all looked on with astonishment and pleasure. The girl had a

sensuous smile on her lips and a bold look in her brown face, which

seemed to say: ‘See! I am the mistress of his heart!’ But suddenly he

pushed her from him as in disgust, broke from the circle of dancers, and

cried to his friends: ‘I am going to bring my own partner. Who will go

with me?’

The tall girl, maddened by the insult, stood looking at him with the

face of a demon, her black eyes burning like flames of hell! But her

discomfiture amused the drunken youths, and they laughed aloud.

Snatching a firebrand and swinging it about his head till the sparks

flew in showers, Rochus cried again: ‘Who goes with me?’ and walked

rapidly away into the forest. The others seizing firebrands also, ran

after him, and soon their voices could be heard far away, ringing out

upon the night, themselves no longer seen. I was still looking in the

direction which they had taken, when the tall girl whom Rochus had

insulted stepped to my side and hissed something into my ear. I felt her

hot breath on my cheek.

‘If you care for the hangman’s daughter, then hasten and save her from

that drunken wretch. No woman resists him!’

God! how the wild words of that woman horrified me! I did not doubt the

girl’s words, but in my anxiety for the poor child I asked: ‘How can I

save her?’

‘Run and warn her, monk,’ the wench replied: ‘she will listen to you.’

‘But they will find her sooner than I.’

‘They are drunk and will not go fast. Besides, I know a path leading to

the hangman’s hut by a shorter route.’

‘Then show me and be quick!’ I cried.

She glided away, motioning me to follow. We were soon in the woods,

where it was so dark I could hardly see the woman’s figure; but she

moved as fast and her step was as sure as in the light of day. Above us

we could see the torches of the boys, which showed that they had taken

the longer path along the mountain-side. I heard their wild shouts, and

trembled for the child. We had walked for some time in silence, having

left the youths far behind, when the young woman began speaking to

herself. At first I did not understand, but soon my ears caught every

passionate word:

‘He shall not have her! To the devil with the hangman’s whelp! Every one

despises her and spits at the sight of her. It is just like him--he

does not care for what people think or say. Because they hate he loves.

Besides, she has a pretty face. I’ll make it pretty for her! I’ll mark

it with blood! But if she were the daughter of the devil himself he

would not rest until he had her. He shall not!’

She lifted her arms and laughed wildly--I shuddered to hear her! I

thought of the dark powers that live in the human breast, though I know

as little of them, thank God, as a child.

At length we reached the Galgenberg, where stands the hangman’s hut, and

a few moments’ climb brought us near the door.

‘There she lives,’ said the girl, pointing to the hut, through the

windows of which shone the yellow light of a tallow candle; ‘go warn

her. The hangman is ill and unable to protect his daughter, even if he

dared. You’d better take her away--take her to the Alpfeld on the Göll,

where my father has a house. They will not look for her up there.’

With that she left me and vanished in the darkness.

Looking in at the window of the hut, I saw the hangman sitting in a

chair, with his daughter beside him, her hand upon his shoulder. I could

hear him cough and groan, and knew that she was trying to soothe him

in his pain. A world of love and sorrow was in her face, which was more

beautiful than ever.

Nor did I fail to observe how clean and tidy were the room and all in

it. The humble dwelling looked, indeed, like a place blessed by the

peace of God. Yet these blameless persons are treated as accurst and

hated like mortal sin! What greatly pleased me was an image of the

Blessed Virgin on the wall opposite the window at which I stood. The

frame was decorated with flowers of the field, and the mantle of the

Holy Mother festooned with edelweiss.

I knocked at the door, calling out at the same time: ‘Do not fear; it is

I--Brother Ambrosius.’

It seemed to me that, on hearing my voice and name, Benedicta showed a

sudden joy in her face, but perhaps it was only surprise--may the saints

preserve me from the sin of pride. She came to the window and opened it.

‘Benedicta,’ said I, hastily, after returning her greeting, ‘wild and

drunken boys are on their way hither to take you to the dance. Rochus

is with them, and says that he will fetch you to dance with him. I have

come before them to assist you to escape.’ At the name of Rochus I saw

the blood rise into her cheeks and suffuse her whole face with crimson.

Alas, I perceived that my jealous guide was right: no woman could resist

that beautiful boy, not even this pious and virtuous child. When her

father comprehended what I said he rose to his feet and stretched out

his feeble arms as if to shield her from harm, but, although his soul

was strong, his body, I knew, was powerless. I said to him: ‘Let me take

her away; the boys are drunk and know not what they do. Your resistance

would only make them angry, and they might harm you both. Ah, look!

See their torches; hear their boisterous voices! Hasten, Benedicta--be

quick, be quick!’

Benedicta sprang to the side of the now sobbing old man and tenderly

embraced him. Then she hurried from the room, and after covering my

hands with kisses ran away into the woods, disappearing in the night,

at which I was greatly surprised. I waited for her to return, for a

few minutes, then entered the cabin to protect her father from the wild

youths who, I thought, would visit their disappointment upon him.

But they did not come. I waited and listened in vain. All at once I

heard shouts of joy and screams that made me tremble and pray to the

blessed Saint. But the sounds died away in the distance, and I knew that

the boys had retraced their steps down the Galgenberg to the meadow of

the fires. The sick man and I spoke of the miracle which had changed

their hearts, and we were filled with gratitude and joy. Then I returned

along the path by which I had come. As I arrived near the meadow, I

could hear a wilder and madder uproar than ever, and could see through

the trees the glare of greater fires, with the figures of the youths

and a few maids dancing in the open, their heads uncovered, their hair

streaming over their shoulders, their garments disordered by the fury

of their movements. They circled about the fires, wound in and out among

them, showing black or red according to how the light struck them, and

looking altogether like Demons of the Pit commemorating some infernal

anniversary or some new torment for the damned. And, holy Saviour!

there, in the midst of an illuminated space, upon which the others did

not trespass, dancing by themselves and apparently forgetful of all

else, were Rochus and Benedicta!

Holy Mother of God! what can be worse than the fall of an angel? I

saw--I understood, then, that in leaving me and her father, Benedicta

had gone willingly to meet the very fate from which I had striven to

save her!

‘The accurst wench has run into Rochus’ arms,’ hissed someone at my

side, and, turning, I saw the tall brown girl who had been my guide,

her face distorted with hate. ‘I wish that I had killed her. Why did you

suffer her to play us this trick, you fool of a monk?’

I pushed her aside and ran toward the couple without thinking what I

did. But what could I do? Even at that instant, as though to prevent

my interference, though really unconscious of my presence, the drunken

youths formed a circle about them, bawling their admiration and clapping

their hands to mark the time.

As these two beautiful figures danced they were a lovely picture. He,

tall, slender and lithe, was like a god of the heathen Greeks, while

Benedicta looked like a fairy. Seen through the slight mist upon the

meadows, her delicate figure, moving swiftly and swaying from side to

side, seemed veiled with a web of purple and gold. Her eyes were cast

modestly upon the ground; her motions, though agile, were easy and

graceful; her face glowed with excitement, and it seemed as if her whole

soul were absorbed in the dance. Poor, sweet child! her error made me

weep, but I forgave her. Her life was so barren and joyless; why should

she not love to dance? Heaven bless her! But Rochus--ah, God forgive

him!

While I was looking on at all this, and thinking what it was my duty to

do, the jealous girl--she is called Amula--had stood near me, cursing

and blaspheming. When the boys applauded Benedicta’s dancing Amula made

as if she would spring forward and strangle her. But I held the furious

creature back, and, stepping forward, called out: ‘Benedicta!’

She started at the sound of my voice, but though she hung her head a

little lower, she continued dancing. Amula could control her rage no

longer, and rushed forward with a savage cry, trying to break into

the circle. But the drunken boys prevented. They jeered at her, which

maddened her the more, and she made effort after effort to reach her

victim. The boys drove her away with shouts, curses and laughter. Holy

Franciscus, pray for us!--when I saw the hatred in Amula’s eyes a cold

shudder ran through my body. God be with us! I believe the creature

capable of killing the poor child with her own hands, and glorying in

the deed!

I ought now to have gone home, but I remained, I thought of what might

occur when the dance was over, for I had been told that the youths

commonly accompanied their partners home, and I was horrified to think

of Rochus and Benedicta alone together in the forest and the night.

Imagine my surprise when all at once Benedicta lifted her head, stopped

dancing, and, looking kindly at Rochus, said in her sweet voice, so like

the sound of silver bells: ‘I thank you, sir, for having chosen me for

your partner in the dance in such a knightly way.’

Then, bowing to the Saltmaster’s son, she slipped quickly through the

circle, and, before anyone could know what was occurring, disappeared

in the black spaces of the forest. Rochus at first seemed stupefied with

amazement, but when he realized that Benedicta was gone he raved like a

madman. He shouted: ‘Benedicta!’ He called her endearing names; but all

to no purpose--she had vanished. Then he hurried after her and wanted

to search the forest with torches, but the other youths dissuaded him.

Observing my presence, he turned his wrath upon me; I think if he had

dared he would have struck me. He cried: ‘I’ll make you smart for this,

you miserable cowl-wearer!’

But I do not fear him. Praise be to God! Benedicta is not guilty, and

I can respect her as before. Yet I tremble to think of the many perils

which beset her. She is defenceless against the hate of Amula as well as

against the lust of Rochus. Ah, if I could be ever at her side to

watch over and protect her! But I commend her to Thee, O Lord: the poor

motherless child shall surely not trust to Thee in vain.

Alas! my unhappy fate!--again punished and again unable to find myself

guilty.

It seems that Amula has talked about Benedicta and Rochus. The brown

wench strolled from house to house telling how Rochus went to the

gallows for his partner in the dance. And she added that Benedicta

had acted in the most shameless manner with the drunken boys. When the

people spoke to me of this I enlightened them regarding the facts, as it

seemed to me my duty to do, and told all as it had occurred.

By this testimony, in contradiction of one who broke the Decalogue by

bearing false witness against her neighbour I have, it seems, offended

the Superior. I was summoned before him and accused of defending the

hangman’s daughter against the statements of an honest Christian girl. I

asked, meekly, what I should have done--whether I should have permitted

the innocent and defenceless to be calumniated.

‘Of what interest,’ I was asked, ‘can the hangman’s daughter be to you?

Moreover, it is a fact that she went of her own will to associate with

the drunken boys.’

To this I replied: ‘She went out of love to her father, for if the

intoxicated youths had not found her they would have maltreated him--and

she loves the old man, who is ill and helpless. Thus it happened, and

thus I have testified.’

But His Reverence insisted that I was wrong, and put me under severe

penance. I willingly undergo it: I am glad to suffer for the sweet

child. Nor will I murmur against the revered Superior, for he is my

master, against whom to rebel, even in thought, is sin. Is not obedience

the foremost commandment of our great saint for all his disciples? Ah,

how I long for the priestly ordination and the holy oil! Then I

shall have peace and be able to serve Heaven better and with greater

acceptance.

I am troubled about Benedicta. If not confined to my cell I should go

toward the Galgenberg: perhaps I should meet her. I grieve for her as if

she were my sister.

Belonging to the Lord, I have no right to love anything but Him who died

upon the cross for our sins--all other love is evil. O blessed Saints in

Heaven! what if it be that this feeling which I have accepted as a sign

and token that I am charged with the salvation of Benedicta’s soul is

but an earthly love?

Pray for me, O dear Franciscus, that I may have the light, lest I stray

into the road which leads down to Hell. Light and strength, beloved

Saint, that I may know the right path, and walk therein forever!

I stand at the window of my cell. The sun sinks and the shadows creep

higher on the sides of the mountains beyond the abyss. The abyss itself

is filled with a mist whose billowy surface looks like a great lake. I

think how Benedicta climbed out of these awful depths to fling me the

edelweiss; I listen for the sound of the stones displaced by her daring

little feet and plunging into the chasm below. But night after night has

passed. I hear the wind among the pines; I hear the water roaring in the

deeps; I hear the distant song of the nightingale; but her voice I do

not hear.

Every evening the mist rises from the abyss. It forms billows; then

rings; then flakes, and these rise and grow and darken until they are

great clouds. They cover the hill and the valley, the tall pines and the

snow-pointed mountains. They extinguish the last remaining touches of

sunlight on the higher peaks, and it is night. Alas, in my soul also

there is night--dark, starless and without hope of dawn!

To-day is Sunday. Benedicta was not in church--‘the dark corner’

remained vacant. I was unable to keep my mind upon the service, a sin

for which I shall do voluntary penance.

Amula was among the other maidens, but I saw nothing of Rochus. It

seemed to me that her watchful black eyes were a sufficient guard

against any rival, and that in her jealousy Benedicta would find

protection. God can make the basest passions serve the most worthy ends,

and the reflection gave me pleasure, which, alas, was of short life.

The services being at an end, the Fathers and friars left the church

slowly in procession, moving through the vestry, while the people went

out at the main entrance. From the long covered gallery leading out of

the vestry one has a full view of the public square of the village. As

we friars, who were behind the Fathers, were in the gallery, something

occurred which I shall remember even to the day of my death as an unjust

deed which Heaven permitted for I know not what purpose. It seems that

the Fathers must have known what was coming, for they halted in the

gallery, giving us all an opportunity to look out upon the square.

I heard a confused noise of voices. It came nearer, and the shouting and

yelling sounded like the approach of all the fiends of Hell. Being at

the farther end of the gallery I was unable to see what was going on

in the square, so I asked a brother at a window near by what it was all

about.

‘They are taking a woman to the pillory,’ he answered.

‘Who is it?’

‘A girl.’

‘What has she done?’

‘You ask a foolish question. Whom are pillories and whipping-posts for

but fallen women?’

The howling mob passed farther into the square, so that I had a full

view. In the front were boys, leaping, gesticulating and singing vile

songs. They seemed mad with joy and made savage by the shame and pain of

their fellow-creature. Nor did the maids behave much better. ‘Fie upon

the outcast!’ they cried. ‘See what it is to be a sinner! Thank heaven,

we are virtuous.’

In the rear of these yelling boys, surrounded by this mob of screaming

women and girls--O God! how can I write it? How can I express the

horror of it? In the midst of it all--she, the lovely, the sweet, the

immaculate Benedicta!

O my Saviour! how did I see all this, yet am still living to relate

it? I must have come near to death. The gallery, the square, the people

seemed whirling round and round; the earth sank beneath my feet, and,

although I strained my eyes open to see, yet all was dark. But it must

have been for but a short time; I recovered, and, on looking down into

the square, saw her again.

They had clothed her in a long gray cloak, fastened at the waist with a

rope. Her head bore a wreath of straw, and on her breast, suspended by

a string about the neck, was a black tablet bearing in chalk the word

‘Buhle’--harlot.

By the end of the rope about her waist a man led her. I looked at him

closely, and--O most holy Son of God, what brutes and beasts Thou didst

come to save!--it was Benedicta’s father! They had compelled the poor

old man to perform one of the duties of his office by leading his own

child to the pillory! I learned later that he had implored the Superior

on his knees not to lay this dreadful command upon him, but all in vain.

The memory of this scene can never leave me. The hangman did not remove

his eyes from his daughter’s face, and she frequently nodded at him and

smiled. By the grace of God, the maiden smiled!

The mob insulted her, called her vile names and spat upon the ground in

front of her feet. Nor was this all. Observing that she took no notice

of them, they pelted her with dust and grass. This was more than the

poor father could endure, and, with a faint, inarticulate moan, he fell

to the ground in a swoon.

Oh, the pitiless wretches!--they wanted to lift him up and make him

finish his task, but Benedicta stretched out her arm in supplication,

and with an expression of so ineffable tenderness upon her beautiful

face that even the brutal mob felt her gentle power and recoiled before

her, leaving the unconscious man upon the ground. She knelt and took

her father’s head in her lap. She whispered in his ear words of love and

comfort. She stroked his gray hair and kissed his pale lips until she

had coaxed him into consciousness and he had opened his eyes. Benedicta,

thrice blessed Benedicta, thou surely art born to be a saint, for thou

didst show a divine patience like that with which our Saviour bore His

cross and with it all the sins of the world!

She helped her father to rise, and smiled brightly in his face when he

made out to stand. She shook the dust from his clothing, and then, still

smiling and murmuring words of encouragement, handed him the rope. The

boys yelled and sang, the women screamed, and the wretched old man led

his innocent child to the place of shame.

When I was back again in my cell I threw myself upon the stones

and cried aloud to God against the injustice and misery that I had

witnessed, and against the still greater misery of which I had been

spared the sight. I saw in my mind the father binding his child to the

post. I saw the brutal populace dance about her with savage delight.

I saw the vicious Amula spit in the pure one’s face. I prayed long and

earnestly that the poor child might be made strong to endure her great

affliction.

Then I sat and waited. I waited for the setting of the sun, for at

that time the sufferer is commonly released from the whipping-post. The

minutes seemed hours, the hours eternities. The sun did not move; the

day of shame was denied a night.

It was in vain that I tried to understand it all; I was stunned and

dazed. Why did Rochus permit Benedicta to be so disgraced? Does he think

the deeper her shame the more easily he can win her? I know not, nor do

I greatly care to search out his motive. But, God help me! I myself feel

her disgrace, most keenly.

And, Lord, Lord, what a light has come into the understanding of Thy

servant! It has come to me like a revelation out of Heaven that my

feeling for Benedicta is more and less than what I thought it. It is

an earthly love--the love of a man for a woman. As first this knowledge

broke into my consciousness my breath beat quick and hard; it seemed to

me that I should suffocate. Yet such was the hardness of my heart from

witnessing so terrible an injustice tolerated by Heaven, that I was

unable wholly to repent. In the sudden illumination I was blinded: I

could not clearly see my degree of sin. The tumult of my emotions was

not altogether disagreeable; I had to confess to myself that I would not

willingly forego it even if I knew it wicked. May the Mother of Mercy

intercede for me!

Even now I cannot think that in supposing myself to have a divine

mandate to save the soul of Benedicta, and prepare her for a life of

sanctity, I was wholly in error. This other human desire--comes it not

also of God? Is it not concerned for the good of its object? And what

can be a greater good than salvation of the soul?--a holy life on earth,

and in Heaven eternal happiness and glory to reward it. Surely the

spiritual and the carnal love are not so widely different as I have been

taught to think them. They are, perhaps, not antagonistic, and are but

expressions of the same will. O holy Franciscus, in this great light

that has fallen about me, guide thou my steps. Show to my dazzled eyes

the straight, right way to Benedicta’s good!

At length the sun disappeared behind the cloister. The flakes and

cloudlets gathered upon the horizon; the haze rose from the abyss and,

beyond, the purple shadow climbed higher and higher, the great slope of

the mountain, extinguishing at last the gleam of light upon the summit.

Thank God, oh, thank God, she is free!

I have been very ill, but by the kind attention of the brothers am

sufficiently recovered to leave my bed. It must be God’s will that I

live to serve Him, for certainly I have done nothing to merit His great

mercy in restoring me to health. Still, I feel a yearning in my soul for

a complete dedication of my poor life to Him and His service. To embrace

Him and be bound up in His love are now the only aspirations that I

have. As soon as the holy oil is on my brow, these hopes, I am sure,

will be fulfilled, and, purged of my hopeless earthly passion for

Benedicta, I shall be lifted into a new and diviner life. And it may be

that then I can, without offence to Heaven or peril to my soul, watch

over and protect her far better than I can now as a wretched monk.

I have been weak. My feet, like those of an infant, failed to support

my body. The brothers carried me into the garden. With what gratitude

I again looked upward into the blue of the sky! How rapturously I gazed

upon the white peaks of the mountains and the black forests on their

slopes! Every blade of grass seemed to me of special interest, and I

greeted each passing insect as if it were an old acquaintance.

My eyes wander to the south, where the Galgenberg is, and I think

unceasingly of the poor child of the hangman. What has become of her?

Has she survived her terrible experience in the public square? What is

she doing? Oh, that I were strong enough to walk to the Galgenberg! But

I am not permitted to leave the monastery, and there is none of whom I

dare ask her fate. The friars look at me strangely; it is as if they

no longer regarded me as one of them. Why is this so? I love them, and

desire to live in harmony with them. They are kind and gentle, yet they

seem to avoid me as much as they can. What does it all mean?

I have been in the presence of the most reverend Superior, Father

Andreas. ‘Your recovery was miraculous,’ said he. ‘I wish you to be

worthy of such mercies, and to prepare your soul for the great blessing

that awaits you. I have, therefore, my son, ordained that you leave us

for a season, to dwell apart in the solitude of the mountains, for the

double purpose of restoring your strength and affording you an

insight into your own heart. Make a severe examination apart from any

distractions, and you will perceive, I do not doubt, the gravity of your

error. Pray that a divine light may be shed upon your path, that you may

walk upright in the service of the Lord as a true priest and apostle,

with immunity from all base passions and earthly desires.’

I had not the presumption to reply. I submit to the will of His

Reverence without a murmur, for obedience is a rule of our Order. Nor

do I fear the wilderness, although I have heard that it is infested with

wild beasts and evil spirits. Our superior is right: the time passed in

solitude will be to me a season of probation, purification and healing,

of which I am doubtless in sore need. So far I have progressed in sin

only; for in confession I have kept back many things. Not from the fear

of punishment, but because I could not mention the name of the maiden

before any other than my holy and blessed Francisais, who alone can

understand. He looks kindly down upon me from the skies, listening to

my sorrow; and whatever of guilt there may be in my compassion for the

innocent and persecuted child he willingly overlooks for the sake of our

blessed Redeemer, who also suffered injustice and was acquainted with

grief.

In the mountains it will be my duty to dig certain roots and send them

to the monastery. From such roots as I am instructed to gather the

Fathers distil a liquor which has become famous throughout the land,

even as far, I have been told, as the great city of Munich. This liquor

is so strong and so fiery with spices that after drinking it one feels

a burning in his throat as if he had swallowed a flame from Hell; yet it

is held in high esteem everywhere by reason of its medicinal properties,

it being a remedy for many kinds of ills and infirmities; and it is said

to be good also for the health of the soul, though I should suppose

a godly life might be equally efficacious in places where the liquor

cannot be obtained. However this may be, from the sale of the liquor

comes the chief revenue of the monastery.

The root from which it is chiefly made is that of an Alpine plant

called _gentiana_, which grows in great abundance on the sides of the

mountains. In the months of July and August the friars dig the roots and

dry them by fire in the mountain cabins, and they are then packed and

sent to the monastery. The Fathers have the sole right to dig the root

in this region, and the secret of manufacturing the liquor is jealously

guarded.

As I am to live in the high country for some time, the Superior

has directed me to collect the root from time to time as I have the

strength. A boy, a servant in the monastery, is to guide me to my

solitary station, carrying up my provisions and returning immediately.

He will come once a week to renew my supply of food and take away the

roots that I shall have dug.

No time has been lost in dispatching me on my penitential errand. This

very evening I have taken leave of the Superior, and, retiring to

my cell, have packed my holy books, the _Agnus_ and the _Life of St.

Franciscus_, in a bag. Nor have I forgotten my writing-materials with

which to continue my diary. These preparations made, I have fortified my

soul with prayer, and am ready for any fate, even an encounter with the

beasts and demons.

Beloved Saint, forgive the pain I feel in going away without having seen

Benedicta, or even knowing what has become of her since that dreadful

day. Thou knowest, O glorious one, and humbly do I confess, that I long

to hasten to the Galgenberg, if only to get one glimpse of the hut

which holds the fairest and best of her sex. Take me not, holy one, too

severely to task, I beseech thee, for the weakness of my erring human

heart!

As I left the monastery with my young guide all was quiet within its

walls; the holy Brotherhood slept the sleep of peace, which had so long

been denied to me. It was early dawn, and the clouds in the east were

beginning to show narrow edges of gold and crimson as we ascended the

path leading to the mountain. My guide, with bag upon his shoulder, led,

and I followed, with my robe fastened back and a stout stick in my hand.

This had a sharp iron point which might be used against wild beasts.

My guide was a light-haired, blue-eyed young fellow with a cheerful and

amiable face. He evidently found a keen delight in climbing his native

hills toward the high country whither we were bound. He seemed not to

feel the weight of the burden that he bore; his gait was light and

free, his footing sure. He sprang up the steep and rugged way like a

mountain-goat.

The boy was in high spirits. He told me strange tales of ghosts and

goblins, witches and fairies. These last he seemed to be very well

acquainted with. He said they appeared in shining garments, with bright

hair and beautiful wings, and this description agrees very nearly with

what is related of them in books by certain of the Fathers. Anyone to

whom they take a fancy, says the boy, they are able to keep under their

spell, and no one can break the enchantment, not even the Holy Virgin.

But I judge that this is true of only such as are in sin, and that the

pure in heart have nothing to fear from them.

We travelled up hill and down, through forests and blooming meadows and

across ravines. The mountain-streams, hastening down to the valleys,

full-banked and noisy, seemed to be relating the wonderful things that

they had seen and the strange adventures they had met with on their way.

Sometimes the hillsides and the woods resounded with nature’s various

voices, calling, whispering, sighing, chanting praises to the Lord of

all. Now and again we passed a mountaineer’s cabin, before which played

children, yellow-haired and unkempt. On seeing strangers, they ran away.

But the women came forward, with infants in their arms, and asked for

benedictions. They offered us milk, butter, green cheese, and black

bread. We frequently found the men seated in front of their huts,

carving wood, mostly images of the Saviour upon the cross. These are

sent to the city of Munich, where they are offered for sale, bringing, I

am told, considerable money and much honour to their pious makers.

At last we arrived at the shore of a lake, but a dense fog prevented a

clear view of it. A clumsy little boat was found moored to the bank; my

guide bade me enter it, and presently it seemed as if we were gliding

through the sky in the midst of the clouds. I had never before been

on the water, and felt a terrible misgiving lest we should capsize and

drown. We heard nothing but the sound of the ripples against the sides

of the boat. Here and there, as we advanced, some dark object became

dimly visible for a moment, then vanished as suddenly as it had

appeared, and we seemed gliding again through empty space. As the mist

at times lifted a little, I observed great black rocks protruding from

the water, and not far from shore were lying giant trees half submerged,

with huge limbs that looked like the bones of some monstrous skeleton.

The scene was so full of horrors that even the joyous youth was silent

now, his watchful eye ever seeking to penetrate the fog in search of new

dangers.

By all these signs I knew that we were crossing that fearful lake which

is haunted by ghosts and demons, and I therefore commended my soul to

God. The power of the Lord overcomes all evil. Scarcely had I said my

prayer against the spirits of darkness, when suddenly the veil of fog

was rent asunder, and like a great rose of fire the sun shone out,

clothing the world in garments of colour and gold!

Before this glorious eye of God the darkness fled and was no more. The

dense fog, which had changed to a thin, transparent mist, lingered a

little on the mountain-sides, then vanished quite away. Except in the

black clefts of the hills, no vestige of it stayed. The lake was as

liquid silver; the mountains were gold, bearing forests that were like

flames of fire. My heart was filled with wonder and gratitude.

As our boat crept on I observed that the lake filled a long, narrow

basin. On our right the cliffs rose to a great height, their tops

covered with pines, but to the left and in front lay a pleasant land,

where stood a large building. This was Saint Bartholomæ, the summer

residence of his Reverence, Superior Andreas.

This garden spot was of no great extent: it was shut in on all sides but

that upon which the lake lay by cliffs that rose a thousand feet into

the air. High in the front of this awful wall was set a green meadow,

which seemed like a great jewel gleaming upon the gray cloak of the

mountain. My guide pointed it out as the only place in all that region

where the edelweiss grew. This, then, was the very place where Benedicta

had culled the lovely flowers that she had brought to me during my

penance. I gazed upward to that beautiful but terrible spot with

feelings that I have no words to express. The youth, his mood

sympathetic with the now joyous aspect of nature, shouted and sang, but

I felt the hot tears rise into my eyes and flow down upon my cheeks, and

concealed my face in my cowl.

After leaving the boat we climbed the mountain. Dear Lord, nothing comes

from Thy hand without a purpose and a use, but why Thou shouldst have

piled up these mountains, and why Thou shouldst have covered them

with so many stones, is a mystery to me, since I can see no purpose in

stones, which are a blessing to neither man nor beast.

After hours of climbing we reached a spring, where I sat down, faint

and footsore and out of breath. As I looked about me the scene fully

justified all that I had been told of these high solitudes. Wherever I

turned my eyes was nothing but gray, bare rocks streaked with red and

yellow and brown. There were dreary wastes of stones where nothing

grew--no single plant nor blade of grass--dreadful abysses filled with

ice, and glittering snowfields sloping upward till they seemed to touch

the sky.

Among the rocks I did, however, find a few flowers. It seemed as if

the Creator of this wild and desolate region had Himself found it too

horrible, and, reaching down to the valleys, had gathered a handful

of flowers and scattered them in the barren places. These flowers, so

distinguished by the Divine hand, have bloomed with a celestial beauty

that none others know. The boy pointed out the plant whose root I am to

dig, as well as several strong and wholesome herbs serviceable to man,

among them the golden-flowered arnica.

After an hour we continued our journey, which we pursued until I was

hardly able to drag my feet along the path. At last we reached a lonely

spot surrounded by great black rocks. In the centre was a miserable hut

of stones, with a low opening in one side for an entrance, and this, the

youth told me, was to be my habitation. We entered, and my heart sank to

think of dwelling in such a place. There was no furniture of any kind. A

wide bench, on which was some dry Alpine grass, was to be my bed.

There was a fireplace, with some wood for fuel, and a few simple

cooking-utensils.

The boy took up a pan and ran away with it, and, throwing myself down in

front of the hut, I was soon lost in contemplation of the wildness and

terror of the place in which I was to prepare my soul for service of

the Lord. The boy soon returned, bearing the pan in both hands, and on

seeing me he gave a joyful shout, whose echoes sounded like a hundred

voices babbling among the rocks on every side. After even so short a

period of solitude I was so happy to see a human face that I came near

answering his greeting with unbecoming joy. How, then, could I hope to

sustain a week of isolation in that lonely spot?

When the boy placed the pan before me it was full of milk, and he

brought forth from his clothing a pat of yellow butter, prettily adorned

with Alpine flowers, and a cake of snow-white cheese wrapped in aromatic

herbs. The sight delighted me, and I asked him, jokingly: ‘Do butter

and cheese, then, grow on stones up here, and have you found a spring of

milk?’

‘You might accomplish such a miracle,’ he replied, ‘but I prefer to

hasten to the Black Lake and ask this food of the young women who live

there.’ He then got some flour from a kind of pantry in the hut, and,

having kindled a fire on the hearth, proceeded to make a cake.

‘Then we are not alone in this wilderness,’ I said. ‘Tell me where is

that lake on the shore of which these generous people dwell?’

‘The Black Lake,’ he replied, blinking his eyes, which were full of

smoke, ‘is behind that _Kogel_ yonder, and the dairy-house stands on the

edge of the cliff above the water. It is a bad place. The lake reaches

clear down to Hell, and you can hear, through the fissures of the rocks,

the roaring and hissing of the flames and the groans of the souls. And

in no other place in all this world are there so many fierce and

evil spirits. Beware of it! You might fall ill there in spite of your

sanctity. Milk and butter and cheese can be obtained at the Green Lake

lower down; but I will tell the women to send up what you require. They

will be glad to oblige you; and if you will preach them a sermon every

Sunday, they will fight the very devil for you!’

After our meal, which I thought the sweetest I had ever eaten, the boy

stretched himself in the sunshine and straightway fell asleep, snoring

so loudly that, tired as I was, I could hardly follow his example.

When I awoke the sun was already behind the mountains, whose tops were

fringed with fire. I felt as one in a dream, but was soon recalled to my

senses, and made to feel that I was alone in the wilderness by shouts

of the young man in the distance. Doubtless he had pitied my condition,

for, instead of disturbing me, he had gone away without taking leave,

being compelled to reach the dairy on the Green Lake before nightfall.

Entering the cabin, I found a fire burning lustily and a quantity of

fuel piled beside it. Nor had the thoughtful youth forgotten to prepare

my supper of bread and milk. He had also shaken up the grass on my hard

bed, and covered it with a woollen cloth, for which I was truly grateful

to him.

Refreshed by my long sleep, I remained outside the cabin till late in

the evening. I said my prayers in view of the gray rocks beneath the

black sky, in which the stars blinked merrily. They seemed much more

brilliant up here than when seen from the valley, and it was easy to

imagine that, standing on the extreme summit, one might touch them with

his hands.

Many hours of that night I passed under the sky and the stars, examining

my conscience and questioning my heart. I felt as if in church, kneeling

before the altar and feeling the awful presence of the Lord. And at last

my soul was filled with a divine peace, and as an innocent child presses

its mother’s breast, even so I leaned my head upon thine, O Nature,

mother of us all!

I had not before seen a dawn so glorious! The mountains were rose-red,

and seemed almost transparent. The atmosphere was of a silver lucidity,

and so fresh and pure that with every breath I seemed to be taking new

life. The dew, heavy and white, clung to the scanty grass-blades like

rain and dripped from the sides of the rocks.

It was while engaged in my morning devotions that I involuntarily became

acquainted with my neighbours. All night long the marmots had squealed,

greatly to my dismay, and they were now capering to and fro like hares.

Overhead the brown hawks sailed in circles with an eye to the birds

flitting among the bushes and the wood-mice racing along the rocks.

Now and again a troop of chamois passed near, on their way to the

feeding-grounds on the cliffs, and high above all I saw a single eagle

rising into the sky, higher and higher, as a soul flies heavenward when

purged of sin.

I was still kneeling when the silence was broken by the sound of voices.

I looked about, but, although I could distinctly hear the voices and

catch snatches of song, I saw no one. The sounds seemed to come from the

heart of the mountain and, remembering the malevolent powers that infest

the place, I repeated a prayer against the Evil One and awaited the

event.

Again the singing was heard, ascending from a deep chasm, and presently

I saw rising out of it three female figures. As soon as they saw me they

ceased singing and uttered shrill screams. By this sign I knew them to

be daughters of the earth, and thought they might be Christians, and so

waited for them to approach.

As they drew near I observed that they carried baskets on their heads,

and that they were tall, good-looking lasses, light-haired, brown in

complexion and black-eyed. Setting their baskets upon the ground, they

greeted me humbly and kissed my hands, after which they opened the

baskets and displayed the good things they had brought me--milk, cream,

cheese, butter and cakes.

Seating themselves upon the ground, they told me they were from the

Green Lake, and said they were glad to have a ‘mountain brother’ again,

especially so young and handsome a one; and in saying so there were

merry twinkles in their dark eyes and smiles on their red lips, which

pleased me exceedingly.

I inquired if they were not afraid to live in the wilderness, at which

they laughed, showing their white teeth. They said they had a hunter’s

gun in their cabin to keep off bears, and knew several powerful

sentences and anathemas against demons. Nor were they very lonely, they

added, for every Saturday the boys from the valley came up to hunt wild

beasts, and then all made merry. I learned from them that meadows and

cabins were common among the rocks, where herdsmen and herdswomen lived

during the whole summer. The finest meadows, they said, belonged to the

monastery, and lay but a short distance away.

The pleasant chatting of the maidens greatly delighted me, and the

solitude began to be less oppressive. Having received the benediction,

they kissed my hand and went away as they had come, laughing, singing

and shouting in the joy of youth and health. So much I have already

observed: the people in the mountains lead a better and happier life

than those in the damp, deep valleys below. Also, they seem purer in

heart and mind, and that may be due to their living so much nearer to

Heaven, which some of the brothers say approaches more closely to the

earth here than at any other place in the world excepting Rome.

The maidens having gone, I stowed away the provisions which they had

brought me, and, taking a short pointed spade and a bag, went in search

of the gentiana roots. They grew in abundance, and my back soon began

to ache from stooping and digging; but I continued the labour, for I

desired to send a good quantity to the monastery to attest my zeal and

obedience. I had gone a long distance from my cabin without observing

the direction which I had taken, when suddenly I found myself on the

brink of an abyss so deep and terrible that I recoiled with a cry of

horror. At the bottom of this chasm, so far below my feet that I was

giddy to look down, a small circular lake was visible, like the eye of

a fiend. On the shore of it, near a cliff overhanging the water, stood a

cabin, from the stone-weighted roof of which rose a thin column of blue

smoke. About the cabin, in the narrow and sterile pasture, a few cows

and sheep were grazing. What a dreadful place for a human habitation!

I was still gazing down with fear into this gulf when I was again

startled: I heard a voice distinctly call a name! The sound came from

behind me, and the name was uttered with so caressing sweetness that I

hastened to cross myself as a protection from the wiles of the fairies

with their spells and enchantments. Soon I heard the voice again, and

this time it caused my heart to beat so that I was near suffocation, for

it was Benedicta’s! Benedicta in this wilderness, and I alone with her!

Surely I now had need of thy guidance, blessed Franciscus, to keep, my

feet in the path of the Divine purpose.

I turned about and saw her. She was now springing from rock to rock,

looking backward and calling the name that was strange to me. When she

saw that I looked at her she stood motionless. I walked to her, greeting

her in the name of the Blessed Virgin, though, God forgive me! hardly

able in the tumult of my emotions to articulate that holy title.

Ah, how changed the poor child was! The lovely face was as pale as

marble; the large eyes were sunken and inexpressibly sad. Her beautiful

hair alone was unaltered, flowing over her shoulders like threads of

gold. We stood looking at each other, silent from surprise; then I again

addressed her: ‘Is it, then, you, Benedicta, who live in the cabin down

there by the Black Lake--near the waters of Avemus? And is your father

with you?’

She made no reply, but I observed a quivering about her delicate mouth,

as when a child endeavours to refrain from weeping. I repeated my

question: ‘Is your father with you?’

She answered faintly, in a tone that was hardly more than a sigh:

‘My father is dead.’

I felt a sudden pain in my very heart, and was for some moments unable

to speak further, quite overcome by compassion. Benedicta had turned

away her face to hide her tears, and her fragile frame was shaken by her

sobs. I could no longer restrain myself. Stepping up to her, I took her

hand in mine, and, trying to crush back into my secret heart every human

desire, and address her in words of religious consolation, said: ‘My

child--dear Benedicta--your father is gone from you, but another Father

remains who will protect you every day of your life. And as far as may

accord with His holy will I, too, good and beautiful maiden, help you to

endure your great affliction. He whom you mourn is not lost; he is gone

to the mercy seat, and God will be gracious to him.’

But my words seemed only to awaken her sleeping grief. She threw herself

upon the ground and gave way to her tears, sobbing so violently that I

was filled with alarm. O Mother of Mercy! how can I bear the memory

of the anguish I suffered in seeing this beautiful and innocent child

overwhelmed with so great a flood of grief? I bent over her, and my own

tears fell upon her golden hair. My heart urged me to lift her from

the earth, but my hands were powerless to move. At length she composed

herself somewhat and spoke, but as if she were talking to herself rather

than to me: ‘Oh, my father, my poor, heart-broken father! Yes, he is

dead--they killed him--he died long ago of grief. My beautiful mother,

too, died of grief--of grief and remorse for some great sin, I know

not what, which he had forgiven her. He could only be compassionate and

merciful. His heart was too tender to let him kill a worm or a beetle,

and he was compelled to kill men. His father and his father’s father had

lived and died in the Galgenberg. They were hangmen all, and the awful

inheritance fell to him: there was no escape, for the terrible people

held him to the trade. I have heard him say that he was often tempted to

kill himself, and but for me I am sure he would have done so. He could

not leave me to starve, though he had to see me reviled, and at last, O

Holy Virgin! publicly disgraced for that of which I was not guilty.’

As Benedicta made this reference to the great injustice that she had

been made to suffer, her white cheeks kindled to crimson with the

recollection of the shame which for her father’s sake she had, at the

time of it, so differently endured.

During the narrative of her grief she had partly risen and had turned

her beautiful face more and more toward me as her confidence had grown;

but now she veiled it with her hair, and would have turned her back but

that I gently prevented her and spoke some words of comfort, though God

knows my own heart was near breaking through sympathy with hers. After

a few moments she resumed: ‘Alas, my poor father! he was unhappy every

way. Not even the comfort of seeing his child baptised was granted him.

I was a hangman’s daughter, and my parents were forbidden to present me

for baptism; nor could any priest be found who was willing to bless me

in the name of the Holy Trinity. So they gave me the name Benedicta, and

blessed me themselves, over and over again.

‘I was only an infant when my beautiful mother died. They buried her

in unconsecrated ground. She could not go to the Heavenly Father in the

mansions above, but was thrust into the flames. While she was dying my

father had hastened to the Reverend Superior, imploring him to send a

priest with the sacrament. His prayer was denied. No priest came, and my

poor father closed her eyes himself, while his own were blind with tears

of anguish for her terrible fate.

‘And all alone he had to dig her grave. He had no other place than near

the gallows, where he had so often buried the hanged and the accurst.

With his own hands he had to place her in that unholy ground, nor could

any masses be said for her suffering soul.

‘I well remember how my dear father took me then to the image of the

Holy Virgin and bade me kneel, and, joining my little hands, taught me

to pray for my poor mother, who had stood undefended before the terrible

Judge of the Dead. This I have done every morning and evening since that

day, and now I pray for both; for my father also has died unshriven, and

his soul is not with God, but burns in unceasing fire.

‘When he was dying I ran to the Superior, just as he had done for my

dear mother. I besought him on my knees. I prayed and wept and embraced

his feet, and would have kissed his hand but that he snatched it away.

He commanded me to go.’

As Benedicta proceeded with her narrative she gained courage. She rose

to her feet and stood erect, threw back her beautiful head and lifted

her eyes to the heavens as if recounting her wrongs to God’s high angels

and ministers of doom. She stretched forth her bare arms in gestures of

so natural force and grace that I was filled with astonishment, and

her unstudied words came from her lips with an eloquence of which I had

never before had any conception. I dare not think it inspiration, for,

God forgive us all! every word was an unconscious arraignment of Him and

His Holy Church; yet surely no mortal with lips untouched by a live coal

from the altar ever so spake before! In the presence of this strange and

gifted being I so felt my own unworth that I had surely knelt, as before

a blessed saint, but that she suddenly concluded, with a pathos that

touched me to tears.

‘The cruel people killed him,’ she said, with a sob in the heart of

every word. ‘They laid hands upon me whom he loved. They charged me

falsely with a foul crime. They attired me in a garment of dishonour,

and put a crown of straw upon my head, and hung about my neck the black

tablet of shame. They spat upon me and reviled me, and compelled him

to lead me to the pillory, where I was bound and struck with whips

and stones. That broke his great, good heart, and so he died, and I am

alone.’

When Benedicta had finished I remained silent, for in the presence of

such a sorrow what could I say? For such wounds as hers religion has

no balm. As I thought of the cruel wrongs of this humble and harmless

family there came into my heart a feeling of wild rebellion against

the world, against the Church, against God! They were brutally unjust,

horribly, devilishly unjust!--God, the Church, and the world.

Our very surroundings--the stark and soulless wilderness, perilous with

precipices and bleak with everlasting snows--seemed a visible embodiment

of the woeful life to which the poor child had been condemned from

birth; and truly this was more than fancy, for since her father’s death

had deprived her of even so humble a home as the hangman’s hovel she had

been driven to these eternal solitudes by the stress of want. But below

us were pleasant villages, fertile fields, green gardens, and homes

where peace and plenty abided all the year.

After a time, when Benedicta was somewhat composed, I asked her if she

had anyone with her for protection.

‘I have none,’ she replied. But observing my look of pain, she added:

‘I have always lived in lonely, accurst places; I am accustomed to that.

Now that my father is dead, there is no one who cares even to speak to

me, nor any whom I care to talk with--except you.’ After a pause she

said: ‘True, there is one who cares to see me, but he----’

Here she broke off, and I did not press her to explain lest it should

embarrass her. Presently she said: ‘I knew yesterday that you were here.

A boy came for some milk and butter for you. If you were not a holy man

the boy would not have come to me for your food. As it is, you cannot

be harmed by the evil which attaches to everything I have or do. Are

you sure, though, that you made the sign of the cross over the food

yesterday?’

‘Had I known that it came from you, Benedicta, that precaution would

have been omitted,’ I answered.

She looked at me with beaming eyes, and said:

‘Oh, dear sir, dear Brother!’

And both the look and the words gave me the keenest delight--as, in

truth, do all this saintly creature’s words and ways.

I inquired what had brought her to the cliff-top, and who the person was

that I had heard her calling.

‘It is no person,’ she answered, smiling; ‘it is only my goat. She has

strayed away, and I was searching for her among the rocks.’

Then nodding to me as if about to say farewell, she turned to go, but I

detained her, saying that I would assist her to look for the goat.

We soon discovered the animal in a crevice of rock, and so glad was

Benedicta to find her humble companion that she knelt by its side, put

her arms about its neck and called it by many endearing names. I thought

this very charming, and could not help looking upon the group with

obvious admiration.

Benedicta, observing it, said: ‘Her mother fell from a cliff and broke

her neck. I took the little one and brought it up on milk, and she

is very fond of me. One who lives alone as I do values the love of a

faithful animal.’

When the maiden was about to leave me I gained courage to speak to her

of what had been so long in my mind. I said: ‘It is true, is it not,

Benedicta, that on the night of the festival you went to meet the

drunken boys in order to save your father from harm?’

She looked at me in great astonishment. ‘For what other reason could you

suppose I went?’

‘I could not think of any other,’ I replied, in some confusion.

‘And now good-bye, Brother,’ she said, moving away.

‘Benedicta,’ I cried. She paused and turned her head.

‘Next Sunday I shall preach to the dairy women at the Green Lake; will

you come?’

‘Oh, no, dear Brother,’ she replied hesitating and in low tones.

‘You will not come?’

‘I should like to come, but my presence would frighten away the dairy

women and others whom your goodness would bring there to hear you. Your

charity to me would cause you trouble. I pray you, sir, accept thanks,

but I cannot come.’

‘Then I shall come to you.’

‘Beware, oh pray, beware!’

‘I shall come.’

The boy had taught me how to prepare a cake. I knew all that went to the

making of it, and the right proportions, yet when I tried to make it I

could not. All that I was able to make was a smoky, greasy pap, more fit

for the mouth of Satan than for a pious son of the Church and follower

of Saint Franciscus. My failure greatly discouraged me, yet it did not

destroy my appetite; so, taking some stale bread, I dipped it in sour

milk and was about to make my stomach do penance for its many sins, when

Benedicta came with a basketful of good things from her dairy. Ah, the

dear child! I fear that it was not with my heart only that I greeted her

that blessed morning.

Observing the smoky mass in the pan, she smiled, and quietly throwing

it to the birds (which may Heaven guard!) she cleansed the pan at the

spring, and, returning arranged the fire. She then prepared the material

for a fresh cake. Taking two handfuls of flour, she put it into an

earthen bowl, and upon the top of it poured a cup of cream. Adding a

pinch of salt, she mixed the whole vigorously with her slender white

hands until it became a soft, swelling dough. She next greased the pan

with a piece of yellow butter, and, pouring the dough into it, placed

it on the fire. When the heat had penetrated the dough, causing it to

expand and rise above the sides of the pan, she deftly pierced it here

and there that it should not burst, and when it was well browned she

took it up and set it before me, all unworthy as I was. I invited her

to share the meal with me, but she would not. She insisted, too, that I

should cross myself before partaking of anything that she had brought me

or prepared, lest some evil come to me because of the ban upon her;

but this I would not consent to do. While I ate she culled flowers from

among the rocks, and, making a wreath, hung it upon the cross in front

of the cabin; after which, when I had finished, she employed herself in

cleansing the dishes and arranging everything in order as it should

be, so that I imagined myself far more comfortable than before, even in

merely looking about me. When there was nothing more to be done, and my

conscience would not permit me to invent reasons for detaining her, she

went away, and O my Saviour! how dismal and dreary seemed the day when

she was gone. Ah, Benedicta, Benedicta, what is this that thou hast done

to me?--making that sole service of the Lord to which I am dedicated

seem less happy and less holy than a herdsman’s humble life here in the

wilderness with thee!

Life up here is less disagreeable than I thought. What seemed to me

a dreary solitude seems now less dismal and desolate. This mountain

wilderness, which at first filled me with awe, gradually reveals its

benign character. It is marvellously beautiful in its grandeur, with a

beauty which purifies and elevates the soul. One can read in it, as in a

book, the praises of its Creator. Daily, while digging gentiana roots, I

do not fail to listen to the voice of the wilderness and to compose and

chasten my soul more and more.

In these mountains are no feathered songsters. The birds here utter only

shrill cries. The flowers, too, are without fragrance, but wondrously

beautiful, shining with the fire and gold of stars. I have seen slopes

and heights here which doubtless were never trodden by any human foot.

They seem to me sacred, the touch of the Creator still visible upon

them, as when they came from His hand.

Game is in great abundance. Chamois are sometimes seen in such droves

that the very hillsides seem to move. There are steinbocks, veritable

monsters, but as yet, thank Heaven, I have seen no bears. Marmots play

about me like kittens, and eagles, the grandest creatures in this high

world, nest in the cliffs to be as near the sky as they can get.

When fatigued, I stretch myself on the Alpine grass, which is as

fragrant as the most precious spices. I close my eyes and hear the wind

whisper through the tall stems, and in my heart is peace. Blessed be the

Lord!

Every morning the dairy women come to my cabin, their merry shouts

ringing in the air and echoed from the hills. They bring fresh milk,

butter and cheese, chat a little while and go away. Each day they relate

something new that has occurred in the mountains or been reported from

the villages below. They are joyous and happy, and look forward with

delight to Sunday, when there will be divine service in the morning and

a dance in the evening.

Alas, these happy people are not free of the sin of bearing

false witness against their neighbour. They have spoken to me of

Benedicta--called her a disgraceful wench, a hangman’s daughter and (my

heart rebels against its utterance) the mistress of Rochus! The pillory,

they said, was made for such as she.

Hearing these maidens talk so bitterly and falsely of one whom they so

little knew, it was with difficulty that I mastered my indignation. But

in pity of their ignorance I reprimanded them gently and kindly. It was

wrong, I said, to condemn a fellow-being unheard. It was unchristian to

speak ill of any one.

They do not understand. It surprises them that I defend a person like

Benedicta--one who, as they truly say, has been publicly disgraced and

has not a friend in the world.

This morning I visited the Black Lake. It is indeed an awful and

accursed place, fit for the habitation of the damned. And there lives

the poor forsaken child! Approaching the cabin, I could see a fire

burning on the hearth, and over it was suspended a kettle. Benedicta was

seated on a low stool, looking into the flames. Her face was illuminated

with a crimson glow, and I could observe heavy tear-drops on her cheeks.

Not wishing to see her secret sorrow, I hastened to make known my

presence, and addressed her as gently as I could. She was startled, but

when she saw who it was, smiled and blushed. She rose and came to greet

me, and I began speaking to her almost at random, in order that she

might recover her composure. I spoke as a brother might speak to his

sister, yet earnestly, for my heart was full of compassion.

‘O Benedicta,’ I said, I know your heart, and it has more love for that

wild youth Rochus than for our dear and blessed Saviour. I know how

willingly you bore infamy and disgrace, sustained by the thought that he

knew you innocent. Far be it from me to condemn you, for what is holier

or purer than a maiden’s love? I would only warn and save you from the

consequence of having given it to one so unworthy.’

She listened with her head bowed, and said nothing, but I could hear

her sighs. I saw, too, that she trembled. I continued: ‘Benedicta, the

passion which fills your heart may prove your destruction in this life

and hereafter. Young Rochus is not one who will make you his wife in the

sight of God and Man. Why did he not stand forth and defend you when you

were falsely accused?’

‘He was not there,’ she said, lifting her eyes to mine; ‘he and his

father were at Salzburg. He knew nothing till they told him.’

May God forgive me if at this I felt no joy in another’s acquittal of

the heavy sin with which I had charged him. I stood a moment irresolute,

with my head bowed, silent.

‘But, Benedicta,’ I resumed, ‘will he take for a wife one whose good

name has been blackened in the sight of his family and his neighbours?

No, he does not seek you with an honourable purpose. O Benedicta,

confide in me. Is it not as I say?’

But she remained silent, nor could I draw from her a single word. She

would only sigh and tremble; she seemed unable to speak. I saw that she

was too weak to resist the temptation to love young Rochus; nay, I saw

that her whole heart was bound up in him, and my soul melted with pity

and sorrow--pity for her and sorrow for myself, for I felt that my power

was unequal to the command that had been laid upon me. My agony was so

keen that I could hardly refrain from crying out.

I went from her cabin, but did not return to my own. I wandered about

the haunted shore of the Black Lake for hours, without aim or purpose.

Reflecting bitterly upon my failure, and beseeching God for greater

grace and strength, it was revealed to me that I was an unworthy

disciple of the Lord and a faithless son of the Church. I became more

keenly conscious than I ever had been before of the earthly nature of my

love for Benedicta, and of its sinfulness. I felt that I had not given

my whole heart to God, but was clinging to a temporal and human hope.

It was plain to me that unless my love for the sweet child should be

changed to a purely spiritual affection, purified from all the dross of

passion, I could never receive holy orders, but should remain always a

monk and always a sinner. These reflections caused me great torment,

and in my despair I cast myself down upon the earth, calling aloud to

my Saviour. In this my greatest trial I clung to the Cross. ‘Save me, O

Lord!’ I cried. ‘I am engulfed in a great passion--save me, oh, save me,

or I perish forever!’

All that night I struggled and prayed and fought against the evil

spirits in my soul, with their suggestions of recreancy to the dear

Church whose child I am.

‘The Church,’ they whispered, ‘has servants enough. You are not as yet

irrevocably bound to celibacy. You can procure a dispensation from your

monastic vows and remain here in the mountains, a layman. You can learn

the craft of the hunter or the herdsman, and be ever near Benedicta to

guard and guide her--perhaps in time to win her love from Rochus and

take her for your wife.’

To these temptations I opposed my feeble strength and such aid as

the blessed Saint gave me in my great trial. The contest was long and

agonising, and more than once, there in the darkness and the wilderness,

which rang with my cries, I was near surrender; but at the dawning of

the day I became more tranquil, and peace once more filled my heart,

even as the golden light filled the great gorges of the mountain where

but a few moments before were the darkness and the mist. I thought then

of the suffering and death of our Saviour, who died for the redemption

of the world, and most fervently I prayed that Heaven would grant me the

great boon to die likewise, in a humbler way, even though it were for

but one suffering being--Benedicta.

May the Lord hear my prayer!

The night before the Sunday on which I was to hold divine service great

fires were kindled on the cliffs--a signal for the young men in the

valley to come up to the mountain dairies. They came in great numbers,

shouting and screaming, and were greeted with songs and shrill cries by

the dairy maidens, who swung flaming torches that lit up the faces

of the great rocks and sent gigantic shadows across them. It was a

beautiful sight. These are indeed a happy people.

The monastery boy came in with the rest. He will remain over Sunday,

and, returning, will take back the roots that I have dug. He gave me

much news from the monastery. The reverend Superior is living at Saint

Bartholomæ, fishing and hunting. Another thing--one which gives me great

alarm--is that the Saltmaster’s son, young Rochus, is in the mountains

not far from the Black Lake. It seems he has a hunting-lodge on the

upper cliff, and a path leads from it directly to the lake. The boy told

me this, but did not observe how I trembled when hearing it. Would that

an angel with a flaming sword might guard the path to the lake, and to

Benedicta!

The shouting and singing continued during the whole night, and between

this and the agitation in my soul I did not close my eyes. Early the

next morning the boys and girls arrived in crowds from all directions.

The maidens wore silken kerchiefs twisted prettily about their heads,

and had decorated themselves and their escorts with flowers.

Not being an ordained priest, it was not permitted me either to read

mass or to preach a sermon, but I prayed with them and spoke to them

whatever my aching heart found to say. I spoke to them of our sinfulness

and God’s great mercy; of our harshness to one another and the Saviour’s

love for us all; of His infinite compassion. As my words echoed from the

abyss below and the heights above I felt as if I were lifted out of

this world of suffering and sin and borne away on angel’s wings to the

radiant spheres beyond the sky! It was a solemn service, and my little

congregation was awed into devotion and seemed to feel as if it stood in

the Holy of Holies.

The service being concluded, I blessed the people and they quietly went

away. They had not been long gone before I heard the lads send forth

ringing shouts, but this did not displease me. Why should they not

rejoice? Is not cheerfulness the purest praise a human heart can give?

In the afternoon I went down to Benedicta’s cabin and found her at the

door, making a wreath of edelweiss for the image of the Blessed Virgin,

intertwining the snowy flowers with a purple blossom that looked like

blood.

Seating myself beside her, I looked on at her beautiful work in silence,

but in my soul was a wild tumult of emotion and a voice that cried:

‘Benedicta, my love, my soul, I love you more than life! I love you

above all things on earth and in Heaven!’

The Superior sent for me, and with a strange foreboding I followed his

messenger down the difficult way to the lake and embarked in the boat.

Occupied with gloomy reflections and presentiments of impending evil,

I hardly observed that we had left the shore before the sound of merry

voices apprised me of our arrival at St. Bartholomæ. On the beautiful

meadow surrounding the dwelling of the Superior were a great number of

people--priests, friars, mountaineers and hunters. Many were there who

had come from afar with large retinues of servants and boys. In the

house was a great bustle--a confusion and a hurrying to and fro, as

during a fair. The doors stood wide open, and people ran in and out,

clamouring noisily. The dogs yelped and howled as loud as they could. On

a stand under the oak was a great cask of beer, and many of the people

were gathered about it, drinking. Inside the house, too, there seemed to

be much drinking, for I saw many men near the windows with mighty cups

in their hands. On entering, I encountered throngs of servants carrying

dishes of fish and game. I asked one of them when I could see the

Superior. He answered that His Reverence would be down immediately after

the meal, and I concluded to wait in the hall. The walls were hung with

pictures of some large fish which had been caught in the lake. Below

each picture the weight of the monster and the date of its capture,

together with the name of the person taking it, were inscribed in

large letters. I could not help interpreting these records--perhaps

uncharitably--as intimations to all good Christians to pray for the

souls of those whose names were inscribed.

After more than an hour the Superior descended the stairs. I stepped

forward, saluting him humbly, as became my position. He nodded, eyed

me sharply, and directed me to go to his apartment immediately after

supper. This I did.

‘How about your soul, my son Ambrosius?’ he asked me, solemnly. ‘Has the

Lord shown you grace? Have you endured the probation?’ Humbly, with my

head bowed, I answered: ‘Most reverend Father, God in my solitude has

given me knowledge.’

‘Of what? Of your guilt?’ This I affirmed.

‘Praise be to God!’ exclaimed the Superior. ‘I knew, my son, that

solitude would speak to your soul with the tongue of an angel. I have

good tidings for you. I have written in your behalf to the Bishop of

Salzburg. He summons you to his palace. He will consecrate you and give

you holy orders in person, and you will remain in his city. Prepare

yourself, for in three days you are to leave us.’

The Superior looked sharply into my face again, but I did not permit him

to see into my heart. I asked for his benediction, bowed and left him.

Ah, then, it was for this that I was summoned! I am to go away forever.

I must leave my very life behind me; I must renounce my care and

protection of Benedicta. God help her and me!

I am once more in my mountain home, but tomorrow I leave it forever. But

why am I sad? Does not a great blessing await me? Have I not ever looked

forward to the moment of my consecration with longing, believing it

would bring me the supreme happiness of my life? And now that this great

joy is almost within my grasp, I am sad beyond measure.

Can I approach the altar of the Lord with a lie on my lips? Can I

receive the holy sacrament as an impostor? The holy oil upon my forehead

would turn to fire and burn into my brain, and I should be for ever

damned.

I might fall upon my knees before the Bishop and say: ‘Expel me, for

I do not seek after the love of Christ, nor after holy and heavenly

things, but after the things of this world.’

If I so spoke, I should be punished, but I could endure that without a

murmur.

If only I were sinless and could rightly become a priest, I could be of

great service to the poor child. I should be able to give her infinite

blessings and consolations. I could be her confessor and absolve her

from sin, and, if I should outlive her--which God forbid!--might by my

prayers even redeem her soul from Purgatory. I could read masses for the

souls of her poor dead parents, already in torment.

Above all, if I succeeded in preserving her from that one great and

destructive sin for which she secretly longs; if I could take her with

me and place her under thy protection, O Blessed Virgin, that would be

happiness indeed.

But where is the sanctuary that would receive the hangman’s daughter?

I know it but too well: when I am gone from here, the Evil One, in the

winning shape he has assumed, will prevail, and she will be lost in time

and in eternity.