But Ermentrude had a love for the white sheet that lay covering a
gorge running up from the ravine. She watched its diminution day by
day with a fancy that she was melting away with it; and indeed it was
on the very day that a succession of drifting showers had left the
sheet alone, and separated it from the masses of white above, that it
first fully dawned upon the rest of the family that, for the little
daughter of the house, spring was only bringing languor and sinking
instead of recovery.
Then it was that Sir Eberhard first really listened to her entreaty
that she might not die without a priest, and comforted her by passing
his word to her that, if--he would not say when--the time drew near,
he would bring her one of the priests who had only come from St.
Ruprecht's cloister on great days, by a sort of sufferance, to say
mass at the Blessed Friedmund's hermitage chapel.
The time was slow in coming. Easter had passed with Ermentrude far
too ill for Christina to make the effort she had intended of going to
the church, even if she could get no escort but old Ursel--the sheet
of snow had dwindled to a mere wreath--the ford looked blue in the
sunshine--the cascade tinkled merrily down its rock--mountain
primroses peeped out, when, as Father Norbert came forth from saying
his ill-attended Pentecostal mass, and was parting with the infirm
peasant hermit, a tall figure strode up the pass, and, as the
villagers fell back to make way, stood before the startled priest,
and said, in a voice choked with grief, "Come with me.
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