‘Father,’ said he, ‘I have sought thee.’

‘My son!’ exclaimed Monk Gregory with silencing hand, ’thou didst not well to leave me contending against the tongues of doubt.  Answer me not.  The maiden! and what weighed she in such a scale?—­No more!  I am punished.  Well speaks the ancient proverb: 

        “Beware the back-blows of Sathanas!”

I, that thought to have vanquished him!  Vanity has wrecked me, in this world and the next.  I am the victim of self-incense.  I hear the demons shouting their chorus—­“Here comes Monk Gregory, who called himself Conqueror of Darkness!” In the camp I am discredited and a scoff; in the city I am spat upon, abhorred.  Satan, my son, fights not with his fore-claws.  ’Tis with his tail he fights, O Farina!—­Listen, my son! he entered to his kingdom below through Cologne, even under the stones of the Cathedral Square, and the stench of him abominably remaineth, challenging the nostrils of holy and unholy alike.  The Kaiser cannot approach for him; the citizens are outraged.  Oh! had I held my peace in humbleness, I had truly conquered him.  But he gave me easy victory, to inflate me.  I shall not last.  Now this only is left, my son; that thou bear living testimony to the truth of my statement, as I bear it to the folly!’

Farina promised, in the face of all, he would proclaim and witness to his victory on Drachenfels.

‘That I may not be ranked an impostor!’ continued the Monk.  ’And how great must be the virtue of them that encounter that dark spirit!  Valour availeth nought.  But if virtue be not in’ ye, soon will ye be puffed to bursting with that devil’s poison, self-incense.  Surely, my son, thou art faithful; and for this service I can reward thee.  Follow me yet again.’

On the road they met Gottlieb Groschen, hastening to the camp.  Dismay rumpled the old merchant’s honest jowl.  Farina drew rein before him.

‘Your daughter is safe, worthy Master Groschen,’ said he.

‘Safe?’ cried Gottlieb; ‘where is she, my Grete?’

Farina briefly explained.  Gottlieb spread out his arms, and was going to thank the youth.  He saw Father Gregory, and his whole frame narrowed with disgust.

‘Are you in company with that pestilent animal, that curse of Cologne!’

‘The good Monk—­,’ said Farina.

’You are leagued with him, then, sirrah!  Expect no thanks from me.  Cologne, I say, is cursed!  Meddling wretches! could ye not leave Satan alone?  He hurt us not.  We were free of him.  Cologne, I say, is cursed!  The enemy of mankind is brought by you to be the deadly foe of Cologne.’

So saying, Gottlieb departed.

‘Seest thou, my son,’ quoth the Monk, ‘they reason not!’

Farina was dejected.  Willingly would he, for his part, have left the soul of Evil a loose rover for the sake of some brighter horizon to his hope.