A Word, Only a Word. Georg Ebers

      The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:

      “From the smithy at Richtberg.”

      “Does he belong to Adam?” laughed the other. “Zounds! I had a bitter hour in the confessional on his mother’s account. He has inherited the beautiful Florette’s hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father. With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I’ll call the boy.”

      “Afterwards, afterwards,” replied the superior of the monastery in a tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction. “First tell the boys, what we have decided?”

      Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.

      As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman exclaimed:

      “You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. What should you say, if I left him among you till Christmas? The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, you. …”

      But he had no time to finish the sentence. The pupils rushed upon him, shouting:

      “Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!”

      One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained protector, another kissed the count’s hand, and two larger boys seized Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into their circle.

      The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down into the old count’s beard, for his heart was easily touched. When he recovered his composure, he exclaimed:

      “Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay! And the Lord Abbot has given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light a St. John’s fire. There shall be no lack of cakes and wine.”

      “Hurrah! hurrah! Long live the count!” shouted the pupils, and all who had caps tossed them into the air. Ulrich was carried away by the enthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had so lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman—all Hangemarx’s abuse of knights and nobles were forgotten.

      The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew that they were unobserved, Count Lips cried:

      “You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof. I saw it. Come here. Over the roof? That should be my right. Whoever breaks the first window in the steeple, shall be victor.”

      The smith’s son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief and feared his father and the abbot. But when the young count held out his closed hands, saying: “If you choose the red stone, you shall throw first,” he pointed to his companion’s right hand, and, as it concealed the red pebble, began the contest. He threw the stone, and struck the window. Amid loud shouts of exultation from the boys, more than one round pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, rattled in broken fragments on the church roof, and from thence fell silently on the grass. Count Lips laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing to follow Ulrich’s example, but the wooden gate was pushed violently open, and Brother Hieronymus, the most severe of all the monks, appeared in the playground. The zealous priest’s cheeks glowed with anger, terrible were the threats he uttered, and declaring that the festival of St. John should not be celebrated, unless the shameless wretch, who had blasphemously shattered the steeple window, confessed his fault, he scanned the pupils with rolling eyes.

      Young Count Lips stepped boldly forward, saying beseechingly:

      “I did it, Father—unintentionally! Forgive me!”

      “You?” asked the monk, his voice growing lower and more gentle, as he continued: “Folly and wantonness without end! When will you learn discretion, Count Philipp? But as you did it unintentionally, I will let it pass for to-day.”

      With these words, the monk left the court-yard; and as soon as the gate had closed behind him, Ulrich approached his generous companion, and said in a tone that only he could hear, yet grateful to the inmost depths of his heart:

      “I will repay you some day.”

      “Nonsense!” laughed the young count, throwing his arm over the shoulder of the artisan’s son. “If the glass wouldn’t rattle, I would throw now; but there’s another day coming to-morrow.”

      CHAPTER VII.

       Table of Contents

      Autumn had come. The yellow leaves were fluttering about the school play-ground, the starlings were gathering in flocks on the church roof to take their departure, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, no matter where. He could not feel at home in the monastery and among his companions. Always first in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, most seldom of all in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor to teach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all.

      Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat studying by the ever-burning lamp in the lobby, but in vain. He could not come up with the others, and the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite of the most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him irritable.

      His comrades did not spare him, and when they called him “horse-boy,” because he was often obliged to help Pater Benedictus in bringing refractory horses to reason, he flew into a rage and used his superior strength.

      He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired Xaver, to whom he owed the nickname.

      This boy’s father was the chief magistrate of the little city, and was allowed to take his son home with him at Michaelmas.

      When the black-haired lad returned, he had many things to tell, gathered from half-understood rumor, about Ulrich’s parents. Words were now uttered, that brought the blood to Ulrich’s cheeks, yet he intentionally pretended not to hear them, because he dared not contradict tales that might be true. He well knew who had brought all these stories to the others, and answered Xaver’s malicious spite with open enmity.

      Count Lips did not trouble himself about any of these things, but remained Ulrich’s most intimate friend, and was fond of going with him to see the horses. His vivacious intellect joyously sympathized with the smith’s son, when he told him about Ruth’s imaginary visions, and often in the play-ground he went apart with Ulrich from their companions; but this very circumstance was a thing that many, who had formerly been on more intimate terms with the aristocratic boy, were not disposed to forgive the new-comer.

      Xaver had never been friendly to the count’s son, and succeeded in irritating many against their former favorite, because he fancied himself better than they, and still more against Ulrich, who was half a servant, yet presumed to play the master and offer them violence.

      The monks employed in the school soon noticed the ill terms, on which the new pupil stood with his companions, and did not lack reasons for shaking their heads over him.

      Benedictus had not been able to conceal, who had been Ulrich’s teacher in Richtberg; and the seeds the Jew had planted in the boy, seemed to be bearing strange and vexatious fruit.

      Father Hieronymus, who instructed the pupils in religion, fairly raged, when he spoke of the destructive doctrines, that haunted the new scholar’s head.

      When, soon after Ulrich’s reception into the school, he had spoken of Christ’s work of redemption, and asked the boy: “From what is the world to be delivered by the Saviour’s suffering?” the answer was: “From the arrogance of the rich and great.” Hieronymus had spoken of the holy sacraments, and put the question: “By what means can the Christian surely obtain mercy, unless he bolts the door against it—that is, commits a mortal sin?” and Ulrich’s answer was: “By doing unto others, what you would have others do unto you.”

      Such strange words might be heard by dozens from the boy’s lips. Some were repeated from Hangemarx’s sayings, others from the doctor’s; and when asked where he obtained them, he quoted