poral power shall not be interfered with by monkish insolence! We are here as ambassador!"

His spurs rang on the floor.

"

"Your pardon," said the abbot, a leather jerkin hardly revealed the ducal ambassador."

"

By the dress of camel-hair worn by John the Baptist! had I come in my shirt I should have been all too fine for your cowls."

He put on his helmet. The plumes nodded. "Pay, that I may depart! The air is bad here-bad, very bad!"

"Permit me," said the abbot, we let no one depart in wrath. You are severe, being empty. Partake of our repast. After that, business."

To be invited to dinner as a reward for one's rudeness made some impression on the chamberlain. He took his helmet off. "The temporal power shall not be interfered with by monkish insolence." The abbot pointed through an open door. A rosy boy was turning a spit, and smacked his lips, for the rich scent of the roast made his mouth water. Covered dishes stood mysteriously in the background. A monk came from the cellar bearing a huge tankard. The sight was too alluring. Sir Spazzo forgot his official frown and accepted the invitation.

At the third dish his insolence grew milder. The red Meersburger wine conquered any remnants of it. The red Meersburger was good.

The red Meersburger was good. Sir Spazzo considered it no light matter to sit over his wine. He drank with obduracy, sat on his bench as though cast of iron, drank like a man-not with the carelessness of youth, but seriously and deep.

"This wine is the most sensible thing about the convent,"

he had said when the first tankard showed bottom. "Presumably you have more." This was an overture of peace. The second tankard came. He drank to the abbot. "The temporal power shall not be interfered with!"

"It shall not," said the abbot, with a side glance.

The fifth hour of afternoon came, and a little bell rang in the cloister. "Your pardon," said the abbot, "it is the vesper hour. Will you pray with us?"

"I prefer to await you here." In the tankard's deep cavity the wine stood high.

Another hour passed. Sir Spazzo tried to recall the reason of his presence in the convent, and failed.

The abbot returned. "How did you pass the time?"

"

Well!" said Sir Spazzo. The tankard was empty.

" I do not know-" began the abbot.

Surely!" said Sir Spazzo, and nodded vigorously. Then came another tankard.

The red wine shone like fiery gold. An aureole glimmered about the abbot's head, Sir Spazzo thought. "By the life of the duchess," he said, "who are you?"

"I beg your pardon?" said the abbot.

The chamberlain recognized the voice. "Aha!" his fist thundered on the table, "the temporal power shall not be interfered with by monkish insolence!"

"Of course not," said the abbot.

The chamberlain felt a shooting pain in his forehead. He called it his "wakener." It came with wine; once, and his tongue was paralyzed; twice, and he lost his power of movement. Sir Spazzo rose. "The monks shall not see the tongue or legs of a ducal servant conquered by their wine," said he to himself. He stood squarely on his feet. "Hold!" said the abbot, "a stirrup-cup!"

Still another tankard came. As Sir Spazzo tried to put it down, he stood it up serenely in mid-air. The tankard smashed down upon the floor. He clutched at the abbot's goblet, and emptied that.

A sweet smile enwreathed the chamberlain's lips. He embraced the abbot.

"Friend, brother, beloved old wine-barrel, how would you like me to poke you in the eye?" His tongue struggled, stammered, refused to move. He hugged the abbot closely, treading, booted and spurred, as he was, upon reverend toes. The abbot had been about to offer Sir Spazzo shelter for the night. The embrace changed his purpose.

Sir Spazzo's horse stood in the courtyard. He mounted, then slipped off. At last he sat in the saddle. He pressed his helmet on his head, and grasped his reins. He fought his helpless tongue. For a moment he recovered his power of speech, and, dashing through the gate, he roared:

"The temporal power shall not be interfered with by monkish insolence! "-" Ekkehard."

Students' Songs
Pope and Sultan

THE Pope he leads a happy life;
He fears not married care nor strife;
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

CHORUS

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But then, all happy's not his life;
He has not maid nor blooming wife,
Nor child has he to raise his hope-
I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me;
His is a life of jollity;
His wives are many as his will-
I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But even he's a wretched man;
He must obey his Alcoran;
And dares not drink one drop of wine→
I would not change his lot for mine.

So, then, I'll hold my lowly stand,
And live in German fatherland;
I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine,
And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

Whene'er my maiden kisses me,
I'll think that I the Sultan be;
And when my cheery glass I tope,
I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

Credo

For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant,

I will sing a holy chant.
If the ditty sound but oddly,
'Twas a father, wise and godly,

Sang it so long ago.
Then sing as Martin Luther sang:
"Who loves not woman, wine, and song,
Remains a fool his whole life long!"

He, by custom patriarchal,
Loved to see the beaker sparkle;
And he thought the wine improved,
Tasted by the lips he loved,

By the kindly lips he loved.
Friends, I wish this custom pious
Duly were observed by us,

To combine love, song, wine, And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not woman, wine, and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!"