“Afterwards, afterwards,” replied the superior of the monastery in a tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction.  “First tell the boys, what we have decided?”

Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.

As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman exclaimed: 

“You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell.  What should you say, if I left him among you till Christmas?  The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, you....”

But he had no time to finish the sentence.  The pupils rushed upon him, shouting: 

“Stay here, Philipp!  Count Lips must stay!”

One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained protector, another kissed the count’s hand, and two larger boys seized Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into their circle.

The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down into the old count’s beard, for his heart was easily touched.  When he recovered his composure, he exclaimed: 

“Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay!  And the Lord Abbot has given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light a St. John’s fire.  There shall be no lack of cakes and wine.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!  Long live the count!” shouted the pupils, and all who had caps tossed them into the air.  Ulrich was carried away by the enthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had so lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman—­all Hangemarx’s abuse of knights and nobles were forgotten.

The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew that they were unobserved, Count Lips cried: 

“You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof.  I saw it.  Come here.  Over the roof?  That should be my right.  Whoever breaks the first window in the steeple, shall be victor.”

The smith’s son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief and feared his father and the abbot.  But when the young count held out his closed hands, saying:  “If you choose the red stone, you shall throw first,” he pointed to his companion’s right hand, and, as it concealed the red pebble, began the contest.  He threw the stone, and struck the window.  Amid loud shouts of exultation from the boys, more than one round pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, rattled in broken fragments on the church roof, and from thence fell silently on the grass.  Count Lips laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing to follow Ulrich’s example, but the wooden gate was pushed violently open, and Brother Hieronymus, the most severe of all the monks, appeared in the playground.  The zealous priest’s cheeks glowed with anger, terrible were the threats he uttered, and declaring that the festival of St. John should not be celebrated, unless the shameless wretch, who had blasphemously shattered the steeple window, confessed his fault, he scanned the pupils with rolling eyes.