But here My Lord Graf was very sore displeased. One could see the purple veins in his high forehead swell, and through his haughty lips sped forth an oath,--yet in no Christian tongue,--a cry to some foul jinn of the East. Then to his great amaze Jerome staggered as though a sling-stone smote him.
So cried the Graf, outstretching a strong arm, and many ran, but the hermit rose in stately pride. Next in that same strange Orient speech he addressed Ludwig, and the proud chief in turn startled.
“Invoke no paynim fiends but answer. Have you been long in the East?”
“Yes.” But in turn Ludwig gazed as do men when turning mad, while two squires, not understanding the tongue, crossed themselves, fearing their lord was wantonly angering the saint.
“Five years at Acre, two at Antioch, three years a prisoner at Hems.”
“I have been in Europe now fourteen years.”
Jerome was staring harder than ever, and all men grew more frighted. Why did he press the Graf so fiercely? Why did the Graf tremble as he answered?
“Ludwig of the Harz;” but again the Graf winced, and the wondering bystanders knew not what to hope or what to fear. They saw Jerome’s stern face growing all grey and pale, yet still he questioned.
“You were three years a prisoner at Hems, then returned direct to Germany?”
“No; I searched for my father. I had heard he had entered a convent when I was taken, but I could not find him. He is surely dead.”
The Graf was retreating step by step; the hermit followed him. They could see Jerome was nigh to falling, and that his great will bore him up.
“And was that father a man swift to wrath and swift to strike?”
“Yes; but, ah! dear Christ, so was I!” and now the Graf was more ashen than the hermit.
“And did you and your father part in love or hate? Speak for the fear of God!”
“He cursed me. He is dead. At the Judgment Bar he will rise up against me. I cannot bear it. God can forgive me; never he.”
Ludwig pressed his hands to his face; his great frame shook.
“Now tell what was your father’s true name,” commanded the hermit.
“I will not tell!” The Graf nigh screamed it in panic-stricken defiance.
“You _will_ tell, and tell it truly, that God may pity you on His last Great Day. What was your father’s name?”