e?" said he, pointing to the bundle upon the old
woman's knees.

She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little baby,
that once again raised its faint reedy pipe.

"It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left behind her
when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She blessed him and called
him Otto before she left us."

IV. The White Cross on the Hill.

Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its bosom a
mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating above, runs
smoothly around a jutting point of land, St. Michaelsburg, rising from
the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps up with a smooth swell until
it cuts sharp and clear against the sky. Stubby vineyards covered its
earthy breast, and field and garden and orchard crowned its brow, where
lay the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg--"The White Cross on the Hill."
There within the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all
was peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of
the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or the
bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint accord of
distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery bell from the
high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and valley and the smooth,
far-winding stream. No other sounds broke the stillness, for in this
peaceful haven was never heard the clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod
hoofs, or the hoarse call to arms.

All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-away age;
all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants, even in that time
when men's hands were against their neighbors, and war and rapine dwelt
in place of peace and justice.

Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale-faced old
man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one would have thought
that they could have known the harsh touch of sword-hilt and lance. And
yet, in the days of the Emperor Frederick--the grandson of the great
Red-beard--no one stood higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all
at once--for why, no man could tell--a change came over him, and in the
flower of his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything
in life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on the
hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of the world in
which he had lived.

Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved his
brother, a