With the figure of Virgil, he succeeded tolerably well; for they had always used ancient pictures as models, for their drawings at St. Gall; and assumed a stereotype way of executing both drapery and outline. Likewise he succeeded with his own portrait; in so far as he managed to draw a figure in a monk's habit, wearing a tonsure; but a terrible problem for him, was the representation of a queenly woman's form, for as yet no woman's picture, not even God's holy Mother, had received admittance, amongst the monastery's paintings. David and Abimelech, which he was so well accustomed to, were of no help to him here, for the regal mantle scarcely came down to their knees; and he knew not how to draw it any longer. So, care once more resumed its seat on his forehead. "Well, what now?" quoth Praxedis, one day. "The poem is finished," replied Ekkehard. "Now something else is wanting." "And what may that be?" "I ought to know, in what way, women's garments cling to their tender limbs," said he in doleful accents. "You are really saying quite wicked things, ye chosen vessel of virtue," scolded Praxedis. But Ekkehard then made his difficulties known to her, in a clearer way, upon which the Greek maid, made a movement with her hand, as if to open his eyes. "Open your eyes," she said, "and look at the living things around you." The advice was simple enough, and yet entirely novel to one, who had acquired all his skill in art in his solitary cell. Ekkehard cast a long and scrutinizing look at his counsellor. "It avails me nothing," said he, "for you do not wear a regal mantle." Then the Greek took pity on the doubt-beset artist. "Wait," said she, "the Duchess is down stairs in the garden, so I can put on her ducal mantle, and you will be helped." She glided out, and after a few minutes reappeared, with the purple mantle, hanging negligently from her shoulders. With slow measured steps, she walked through the chamber. On a table stood a metal candlestick, which she seized, and held up like a sceptre; and thus with head thrown back, she stood before the monk. He had taken out his pencil and parchment. "Turn round, a little more towards the light," said he, beginning at once to draw eagerly. Every time however, when he looked at his graceful model, she darted a sparkling look at him. His movements became slower, and Praxedis looked towards the window. "But, as our rival in the realm," began she with an artificially raised voice, "is already leaving the courtyard, threatening to take us by surprise; we command you on pain of losing your head, to finish your drawing within the next minute." "I thank you," said Ekkehard, putting down his pencil. Praxedis stepped up to him, and bending forwards, looked at what he had done. "What shameful treason!" exclaimed she, "why, the picture has no head!" "I merely wanted the drapery," said Ekkehard.