To kindle my cold love.

“Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!

Shining nowhere but in the dark!

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

“He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest, may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

“And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams,

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep!”

Such were Flemming’s thoughts, as he stood among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen.  A holy calm stole over him.  The fever of his heart was allayed.  He had a moment’s rest from pain; and went back to his chamber in peace.  Whence came this holy calm, this long-desired tranquillity?  He knew not; yet the place seemed consecrated.  He resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Bethesda for him; and let Berkley go on alone to the baths of Ischel.  He would wait for him there in the solitude of Saint Gilgen.  Long after they had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthe silence within and without.  Hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie.  At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired with a sob.  This aroused him.

He went to the window, and peered out into the dark night.  It was very late.  Twice already since midnight had the great pulpit-orator Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went on with his sermon, thundering downward to the congregation in the churchyard and in the village.  But they heard him not.  They were all asleep in their narrow pews, namely, in their beds and in their graves.  Soon afterward the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like the apostle, who denied his Lord, wept bitterly.

CHAPTER VI.  SAINT WOLFGANG.

The morning is lovely beyond expression.  The heat of the sun is great; but a gentle wind cools the air.  Birds never sang more loud and clear.  The flowers, too, on the window-sill, and on the table, rose, geranium, and the delicate crimson cactus, are all so beautiful, that we think the German poet right, when he calls the flowers “stars in the firmament of the earth.”  Out of doors all is quiet.  Opposite the window stands the village schoolhouse.  There are two parasite trees, with their outspread branches nailed against the white walls, like the wings of culprit kites.  There the rods grow.  Under them, on a bench at the door, sit school-girls; and barefoot urchins in breeches are spelling out their lessons.  The clock strikestwelve, and one by one they disappear, and go into the hive, like