of foolish warfare, that its halls fell into ruins. The
monks were driven away, the abbey was pulled down, and the stones were
used for the building of a fortress.

Since that time, so the country folk relate, the spirits of the
banished monks wander nightly among the ruins, raising mute
accusations against their persecutors and the destroyers of their
cells. Among them there was one, Gebhard, the last Prior of
Heisterbach, who now, they say, wanders about the graves of the monks,
and also haunts the burial-places of the Masters of Loewenburg and
Drachenburg.

In the Middle Ages the monks of Heisterbach were very famous. Many a
rare copy of the Holy Scriptures, many a highly learned piece of
writing was sent out into the world from this hermitage, telling of
the industry and learning of the pious monks.

There was one brother, still young in years, who distinguished himself
by his learning. He was looked up to by all the other brethren, and
even the gray-haired Father Prior had recourse to his stores of
knowledge. But the poisonous worm of doubt began to gnaw at his soul;
the mirror of his faith was blurred by his deep meditations. His keen
eye would often wander over the faded parchment on which the living
word of God was written, while his childlike believing heart, humbly
submitting itself, would lamentingly cry out, "Lord, I believe, help
Thou mine unbelief!" Like a ghost his restless doubts would hover
about him, making his soul the scene of tormenting struggle.

One night with flushed face he had been meditating over a parchment.
At daybreak he still remained engrossed in his thoughts. The morning
sun threw his bright rays over the heavens, casting playful beams on
the written roll in the monk's hands.

But he saw them not, his thoughts were wholly taken up by a passage
which for months past had ever been hidden to him and had been the
constant subject of his reflections, "A thousand years are but as a
day in Thy sight."

His brain had already long tormented itself over the obscure words of
the Psalmist, and with a great effort he had striven to blot it out of
his memory, and now the words danced again before his weary eyes,
growing larger and larger. Those confusing black signs seemed to
become a sneering doubt hovering round him: "A thousand years are but
as a day in Thy sight."

He tore himself away from the silent cell, seeking the cool solitude
of the cloister-gardens. There with a heavy heart he pac