At last he turned his attention to the game.  Many of the stones, that had been thrown, struck the slates on the roof; not one had passed over the church.  The longer the unsuccessful efforts lasted, the more evident became the superior smile on Ulrich’s lips, the faster his heart throbbed.  His eyes searched the grass, and when he had discovered a flat, sharp-edged stone, he hurriedly stooped, pressed silently into the ranks of the players, and bending the upper part of his body far back, summoned all his strength, and hurled the stone in a beautiful curve high into the air.

Forty sparkling eyes followed it, and a loud shout of joy rang out as it vanished behind the church roof.  One alone, a tall, thin, black-haired lad, remained silent, and while the others were begging Ulrich to throw again, searched for a stone, exerted all his power to equal the 11 “greenhorn,” and almost succeeded.  Ulrich now sent a second stone after the first, and, again the cast was successful.  Dark-browed Xaver instantly seized a new missile, and the contest that now followed so engrossed the attention of all, that they saw and heard nothing until a deep voice, in a firm, though not unkind tone, called:  “Stop, boys!  No games must be played with the church.”

At these words the younger boys hastily dropped the stones they had gathered, for the man who had shouted, was no less a personage than the Lord Abbot himself.

Soon the lads approached to kiss the ecclesiastic’s hand or sleeve, and the stately priest, who understood how to guide those subject to him by a glance of his dark eyes, graciously and kindly accepted the salutation.

“Grave in office, and gay in sport” was his device.  Count von Frohlinger, who had entered the garden with him, looked like one whose motto runs:  “Never grave and always gay.”

The nobleman had not grown younger since Ulrich’s mother fled into the world, but his eyes still sparkled joyously and the brick-red hue that tinged his handsome face between his thick white moustache and his eyes, announced that he was no less friendly to wine than to fair women.  How well his satin clothes and velvet cloak became him, how beautifully the white puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress!  How proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over his cap, and how delicate were the laces on his collar and cuffs!  His son, the very image of the handsome father, stood beside him, and the count had laid his hand familiarly on his shoulder, as if he were not his child, but a friend and comrade.

“A devil of a fellow!” whispered the count to the abbot.  “Did you see the fair-haired lad’s throw?  From what house does the young noble come?”

The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling: 

“From the smithy at Richtberg.”

“Does he belong to Adam?” laughed the other.  “Zounds!  I had a bitter hour in the confessional on his mother’s account.  He has inherited the beautiful Florette’s hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father.  With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I’ll call the boy.”