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Ulrike was in the habit of making frequent and
earnest appeals to God, and she now prayed fervently,
where she knelt. Her attention was recalled
to earth, by a violent shaking of the shoulder.

“Ulrike, child!—Frau Frey!” exclaimed the assiduous
Ilse.—“Art glued to the ground by necromancy?
Why art thou here, and whither hath the
holy man sped?”

“Sawest thou Odo von Ritterstein?”

“Whom! Art mad, Frau? I saw none but the
blessed Anchorite, who passed me an' he were an
angel taking wing for heaven; and though I knelt
and beseeched but a look of grace, his soul was too
much occupied with its mission to note a sinner.
Had I been evil as some that might be named, this
slight might give some alarm; but being that I am,
I set it down rather to the account of merit than to
that of any need. Nay, I saw naught but the
Hermit.”

“Then didst thou see the unhappy Herr von Ritterstein!”

Ilse stood aghast.

“Have we harbored a wolf in sheep's clothing!”
she cried, when the power of speech returned.
“Hath the Palatinate knelt, and wept, and prayed at
the feet of a sinner, like ourselves—nay, even worse
than ourselves, after all! Hath what hath passed
for true coin been naught but base metal—our unction,
hypocrisy—our hopes, wicked delusions—our
holy pride, vanity?”

“Thou sawest Odo von Ritterstein, Ilse,” returned
Ulrike, rising, “but thou sawest a devout man.”

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Then giving her arm to the nurse, for of the two
the attendant most required assistance, she took the
way from the hut. While walking among the fallen
walls of the deserted camp, Ulrike endeavored to
bring her companion to consider the character and
former sins of the Anchorite with more lenity. The
task was not easy, for Ilse had been accustomed to
think the truant Odo altogether abandoned of God,
and opinions that have been pertinaciously maintained
for twenty years, are not gotten rid of in a
moment. Still there is a process by which the human
mind can be made to do more than justice,
when prejudice is finally eradicated. It is by this
species of reaction, that we see the same individuals
now reprobated as monsters, and now admired as
heroes; the common sentiment as rarely doing strict
justice in excessive applause as in excessive condemnation.

We do not mean to say, however, that the
sentiment of Ilse towards the Anchorite underwent
this violent revulsion from detestation to reverence;
for the utmost that Ulrike could obtain in his favor,
was an admission that he was a sinner in
whose behalf all devout Christians might without
any manifest impropriety occasionally say an ave.
This small concession of Ilse sufficiently favored the
wishes of her mistress, which were to follow the
Hermit to the Abbey church, to kneel at its altars,
and to mingle her prayers with those of the penitent,
on this the anniversary of his crime, for pardon
and peace. We pretend not to show by what cord
of human infirmity the wife of Heinrich Frey was
led into the indulgence of a sympathy so delicate,
with one to whom her hand had formerly been
plighted; for we are not acting here in the capacity
of censors of female propriety, but as those who
endeavor to expose the workings of the heart, be
they for good or be they for evil. It is sufficient

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for our object, that the result of the whole picture
shall be a lesson favorable to virtue and truth.

So soon as Ulrike found she could lead her companion
in the way she wished, without incurring the
risk of listening to stale morals dealt out with a
profuse garrulity, she took the path directly towards
the convent. As the reader has most probably perused
our Introduction, there is no necessity of saying
more than that Ulrike and her attendant proceeded
by the route we ourselves took in going from
one mountain to the other. But the progress of Ilse
was far slower than that described as our own, in
ascending to the Heidenmauer under the guidance
of Christian Kinzel. The descent itself was long
and slow, for one of her infirmities and years, and
the ascent far more tedious and painful. During
the latter, even Ulrike was glad to halt often, to
recover breath, though they went up by the horsepath
over which they had ridden in the morning.

The character of the night had not changed.
The moon appeared to wade among fleecy clouds
as before, and the light was misty but sufficient to
render the path distinct. At this hour, the pile of
the convent loomed against the sky, with its dark
Gothic walls and towers, resembling a work of
giants, in which those who had reared the structure
were reposing from their labors. Accustomed as
she was to worship at its altars, Ulrike did not now
approach the gate without a sentiment of admiration.
She raised her eyes to the closed portal, to the long
ranges of dark and sweeping walls, and everywhere
she met evidences of midnight tranquillity.
There was a faint glow upon the side of the narrow,
giddy tower, that contained the bells, and which
flanked the gate; and she knew that it came from a
lamp that burnt before the image of the Virgin in
the court. This gave no sign that even the porter
was awake. She stepped, however, to the wicket,

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and rang the night-bell. The grating of the bolts
quickly announced the presence of one within.

“Who cometh to Limburg at this hour?” demanded
the porter, holding the wicket chained, as if distrusting
treachery.

“A penitent to pray.”

The tones of the voice assured the keeper of the
gate, who had means also of examining the stranger
with the eye, and he so far opened the wicket as to
permit the form of Ulrike to be distinctly seen.

“It is not usual to admit thy sex within these
holy walls, after the morning mass hath been said,
and the confessionals are empty.”

“There are occasions on which the rule may be
broken, and the solemn ceremony of to-night is one.”

“I know not that.—Our reverend Abbot is severe
in the observance of all decencies,—”

“Nay, I am one closely allied to him in whose
behalf this service is given,” said Ulrike, hastily.—
“Repel me not, for the love of God!”

“Art thou of his kin and blood?”

“Not of that tie,” she answered, in the checked
manner of one who felt her own precipitation, “but
bound to his hopes by the near interests of affection
and sympathy.”

She paused, for at that instant the form of the
Anchorite filled the space beside the porter. He
had been kneeling before the image of a crucifix
hard by, and had been called from his prayers by
the soft appeal that betrayed Ulrike's interest in him,
every tone of which went to his heart.

“She is mine,” he said, authoritatively;—“she
and her attendant are both mine.—Let them enter!”

Ulrike hesitated—she scarce knew why,—and
Ilse, wearied with her efforts, and impatient to be at
rest, was obliged to impel her forward. The Hermit,
as if suddenly recalled to the duty on which
he had come to the convent, turned and glided away.

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The porter, who had received his instructions relative
to him for whom the mass was to be said, offered
no further obstacle, but permitted Ilse to conduct
her mistress within. No sooner were the females
in the court, than he closed and barred the
wicket.

Ulrike hesitated no longer, though she trembled
in every limb. Dragging the loitering Ilse after her,
with difficulty, she took the way directly towards the
door of the chapel. With the exception of the
porter at the wicket, and the lamp before the Virgin,
all seemed as dim and still within as it had been
without the Abbey-walls. Not even a sentinel of
Duke Friedrich's men-at-arms was visible; but this
occasioned no surprise, as these troops were known
to keep as much aloof from the more religious part
of the tenants of Limburg, as was possible. The
spacious buildings, in the rear of the Abbot's dwelling,
might well have lodged double their number,
and in these it was probable they were now housed.
As for the monks, the lateness of the hour, and the
nature of the approaching service, fully accounted
for their absence.

The door of the Abbey-church was always open.
This usage is nearly common to every Catholic place
of worship in towns of any size, and it contains an
affecting appeal, to the passenger, to remember the
Being in whose honor the temple has been raised.
The custom is, in general, turned to account equally
by the pious and the inquisitive, the amateur of the
arts, and the worshipper of God; and it is to be regretted
that the former, more especially when they
belong to a different persuasion or sect, should not
oftener remember, that their taste becomes bad,
when it is indulged at the expense of that reverence
which should mark all the conduct of man in the
immediate presence of his Creator. On the present
occasion, however, there were none present to

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treat either the altar or its worship with levity.
When Ulrike and Ilse entered the chapel, the candles
of the great altar were lighted, and the lamps of
the choir threw a gloomy illumination on its sombre
architecture. The fretted and painted vault above,
the carved oak of the stalls, the images of the altar,
and the grave and kneeling warriors in stone, that
decorated the tombs, stood out prominent in the relief
of their own deep shadows.

If it be desirable to quicken devotion by physical
auxiliaries, surely all that was necessary to reduce
the mind to deep and contemplative awe existed
here. The officials of the altar swept past the gorgeous
and consecrated structure, in their robes of
duty; grave, expectant monks were in their stalls,
and Boniface himself sat on his throne, mitred and
clad in vestments of embroidery. It is possible that
an inquisitive and hostile eye might have detected
in some weary countenance or heavy eyelid, longings
for the pillow, and little sympathy in the offices;
but there were others who entered on their duties
with zeal and conviction. Among the last was
Father Arnolph, whose pale features and thoughtful
eye were seen in his stall, where he sat regarding
the preparations with the tranquil patience of one
accustomed to seek his happiness in the duties of
his vow. To him might be put in contrast the unquiet
organs and severe, rather than mortified, lineaments
of Father Johan, who glanced hurriedly from
the altar, and its rich decorations, to the spot where
the Anchorite knelt, as if to calculate to what degree
of humiliation and bitterness it were possible to
reduce the bruised spirit of the penitent.

Odo of Ritterstein, for there no longer remains a
reason for refusing to the Anchorite his proper appellation,
had placed himself near the railing at the
foot of the choir, on his knees, where he continued
with his eyes fixed on the golden vessel that

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contained the consecrated host he had once outraged—
the offence which he had now come, as much as in
him lay, to expiate. The light fell but faintly on his
form, but it served to render every furrow that grief
and passion had drawn athwart his features more
evident. Ulrike studied his countenance, seen as it
was in circumstances of so little flattery; and,
trembling, she knelt by the side of Ilse, on the other
side of the little gate that served to communicate
between the body of the church and the choir. Just
as she had assumed this posture, Gottlob stole from
among the pillars, and knelt in the distance, on the
flags of the great aisle. He had come to the mass
as a ceremony refused to none.

So strong was the light around the altar, and so
obscure the aisles below, that it was with difficulty
Bonifacius could assure himself of the presence of
him in whose behalf this office was had. But when,
by contracting his heavy front, so as to form a sort
of screen of his shaggy brows, he was enabled to
distinguish the form of Odo, he seemed satisfied, and
motioned for the worship to proceed.

There is little need to repeat the details of a ceremony
it has been our office already to relate in
these pages; but as the music and other services
had place in the quiet and calm of midnight, they
were doubly touching and solemn. There was the
same power of the single voice as in the morning,
or rather on the preceding day, for the turn of the
night was now passed, and the same startling effect
was produced, even on those who were accustomed
to its thrilling and superhuman melody. As the
mass proceeded, the groans of the Anchorite became
so audible, that, at times, these throes of sorrow
threatened to interrupt the ceremonies. The heart
of Ulrike responded to each sigh that escaped the
bosom of Odo, and, ere the first prayers were ended,
her face was bathed in tears.

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The examination of the different countenances of
the brotherhood, during this scene, would have been
a study worthy of a deep inquirer into the varieties
of human character, or of those who love to trace
the various forms in which the same causes work
on different tempers. Each groan of the Anchorite
lighted the glowing features of Father Johan with a
species of holy delight, as if he triumphed in the
power of the offices; and, at each minute, his head
was bent inquiringly in the direction of the railing,
while his ear listened eagerly for the smallest sound
that might favor his desires. On the other hand,
the workings of the Prior's features were those of
sorrow and sympathy. Every sigh that reached
him awakened a feeling of pity—blended with pious
joy, it is true—but a pity that was deep, distinct,
and human. Bonifacius listened like one in authority,
coldly, and with little concern in what passed, beyond
that which was attached to a proper observance
of the ritual; and, from time to time, he bent
his head on his hand, while he evidently pondered
on things that had little connexion with what was
passing before his eyes. Others of the fraternity
manifested more or less of devotion, according to
their several characters; and a few found means to
obtain portions of sleep, as the rites admitted of the
indulgence.

In this manner did the community of Limburg
pass the first hours of the day, or rather of the
morning, that succeeded the sabbath of this tale. It
may have been, afterwards, source of consolation
to those among them that were most zealous in the
observance of their vows, that they were thus passed;
for events were near that had a lasting influence
not only on their own destinies, but on those
of the very region in which they dwelt.

The strains of the last hymn were rising into the
vault above the choir, when, amid the calm that

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exquisite voice never failed to produce, there came
a low rushing sound, which might have been taken
for the murmuring of wind, or for the suppressed
hum of a hundred voices. When it was first heard,
stealing among the ribbed arches of the chapel, the
cow-herd arose from his knees, and disappeared in
the gloomy depths of the church. The monks turned
their heads, as by a general impulse, to listen, but
the common action was as quickly succeeded by
grave attention to the rites. Bonifacius, indeed,
seemed uneasy, though it was like a man who scarce
knew why. His gray eyes roamed over the body
of darkness that reigned among the distant columns
of the church, and then they settled, with vacancy,
on the gorgeous vessels of the altar. The hymn
continued, and its soothing power appeared to quiet
every mind, when the sound of tumult at the great
gate of the outer wall became too audible and distinct
to admit of doubt. The whole brotherhood
arose as a man, and the voice of the singer was
mute. Ulrike clasped her hands in agony, while
even Odo of Ritterstein forgot his grief, in the rude
nature of the interruption.

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