When the Abbot had proceeded a few paces, the evil Sindolt began to give a new sort of explanation: "That is our Tutilo," said he, pointing to a bear, which had just thrown down one of its companions,--"that the blind Thieto,"--pointing to the wild goat, and he was just about to honour the Abbot with some flattering comparison, when the Duchess interrupted him by saying: "As you are so clever in finding similes, will you find one for me also?" Sindolt became embarrassed. Luckily his eye now fell on a beautiful silver-pheasant, which was in the midst of a troop of cranes, basking in the sunshine which lighted up its pearly grey feathers. "There," said Sindolt. But the Duchess turned round to Ekkehard, who gazed dreamily at the bustle and life before him. "What do you think of it?" asked she. He started up. "Oh, mistress!" said he in soft tones, "who is so audacious as to compare you to anything that flies or crawls?" "But if we desire it?" "Then I only know of one bird," said Ekkehard. "We have not got it, nor has anyone; in star-lit midnights it flies high over our heads, brushing the sky with its wings. The bird's name is Caradrion, and when its wings touch the earth a sick man is healed. Then the bird, inclining towards the man, opens its beak over his mouth, and taking the man's sickness unto itself rises up to the sun, and purifies itself in the eternal light; and the man is saved." The Abbot's return put a stop to further similes. One of the serving brothers was sitting on an apple-tree, plucking the apples, and putting them into baskets. When the Duchess approached the tree, he was going to descend, but she made him a sign to stop where he was. Now, the singing of sweet boyish voices was heard. The voices were those of the younger cloister-pupils who came to do homage to the Duchess. Children as they were, the little fellows wore already the monk's habit, and several even the tonsure on their eleven years old heads. When the procession of the little rosy-cheeked future abbots came in sight, with their eyes cast down and singing their sequences so seriously, a slight, mocking smile played round Dame Hadwig's lips, and with her strong foot, she upset the nearest of the baskets, so that the apples rolled about enticingly on the ground, in the midst of the boys. But unabashed they continued their walk; only one of the youngest wanted to bend down and take up the tempting fruit, which his companion forcibly prevented, by taking a good hold of his girdle. Much pleased the Abbot witnessed the young folks' excellent behaviour and said: "Discipline distinguishes human beings from animals, and if you were to throw the apples of Hesperides amongst them, they would remain stedfast." Dame Hadwig was touched. "Are all your pupils so well trained?" asked she. "If you like to convince yourself with your own eyes," said the Abbot, "you will see that the elder ones know quite as well the meaning of obedience and submission."