"She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise."

The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he, under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked.

"Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of his thoughts.

"Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he, "that all the little children in these dark times might be thus brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace, instead of rapine and war."

For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron Conrad—"hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and extortion?"

"Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of me."

The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to cease from war and violence."

"Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my troubles happened. A fortnight a