“Now write to the Superior of the monastery at Cologne, and bid him send me back my boy, my darling, my Otto—­my Otto of roses!” said the fond father, making the first play upon words he had ever attempted in his life.  But what will not paternal love effect?  The secretary (smiling at the joke) wrote another letter, and another fleet messenger was despatched on another horse.

“And now,” said Sir Ludwig, playfully, “let us to lunch.  Holy hermit, are you for a snack?”

The hermit could not say nay on an occasion so festive, and the three gentles seated themselves to a plenteous repast; for which the remains of the feast of yesterday offered, it need not be said, ample means.

“They will be home by dinner-time,” said the exulting father.  “Ludwig! reverend hermit! we will carry on till then.”  And the cup passed gayly round, and the laugh and jest circulated, while the three happy friends sat confidentially awaiting the return of the Margravine and her son.

But alas! said we not rightly at the commencement of a former chapter, that betwixt the lip and the raised wine-cup there is often many a spill? that our hopes are high, and often, too often, vain?  About three hours after the departure of the first messenger, he returned, and with an exceedingly long face knelt down and presented to the Margrave a billet to the following effect:—­

“Convent of Nonnenwerth, Friday Afternoon.

“Sir—­I have submitted too long to your ill-usage, and am disposed to bear it no more.  I will no longer be made the butt of your ribald satire, and the object of your coarse abuse.  Last week you threatened me with your cane!  On Tuesday last you threw a wine-decanter at me, which hit the butler, it is true, but the intention was evident.  This morning, in the presence of all the servants, you called me by the most vile, abominable name, which heaven forbid I should repeat!  You dismissed me from your house under a false accusation.  You sent me to this odious convent to be immured for life.  Be it so!  I will not come back, because, forsooth; you relent.  Anything is better than a residence with a wicked, coarse, violent, intoxicated, brutal monster like yourself.  I remain here for ever and blush to be obliged to sign myself

“Theodora von Godesberg.

“P.S.—­I hope you do not intend to keep all my best gowns, jewels, and wearing-apparel; and make no doubt you dismissed me from your house in order to make way for some vile hussy, whose eyes I would like to tear out.  T. V. G.”

CHAPTER VII.

The sentence.

This singular document, illustrative of the passions of women at all times, and particularly of the manners of the early ages, struck dismay into the heart of the Margrave.

“Are her ladyship’s insinuations correct?” asked the hermit, in a severe tone.  “To correct a wife with a cane is a venial, I may say a justifiable practice; but to fling a bottle at her is ruin both to the liquor and to her.”