The lark was in the breast of morning. The field-mouse
ran along the furrows. Dews hung red and grey on the weedy banks and
wayside trees. At times the nostril of the good father was lifted, and he
beat his breast, relapsing into sorrowful contemplation. Passed-any
citizen of Cologne, the ghostly head sunk into its cowl. 'There's a black
raven!' said many. Monk Gregory heard them, and murmured, 'Thou hast me,
Evil one! thou hast me!'
It was noon when Farina came clattering down from the camp.
'Father,' said he, 'I have sought thee.'
'My son!' exclaimed Monk Gregory with silencing hand, 'thou didst not
well to leave me contending against the tongues of doubt. Answer me not.
The maiden! and what weighed she in such a scale?--No more! I am
punished. Well speaks the ancient proverb:
"Beware the back-blows of Sathanas!"
I, that thought to have vanquished him! Vanity has wrecked me, in this
world and the next. I am the victim of self-incense. I hear the demons
shouting their chorus--"Here comes Monk Gregory, who called himself
Conqueror of Darkness!" In the camp I am discredited and a scoff; in the
city I am spat upon, abhorred.
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