At noon on St. John's day, Ulrich and his father stood before the gate of
the monastery. Servants and mettled steeds were waiting there, and the
porter, pointing to them, said: "Count Frohlinger is within."

Adam turned pale, pressed his son so convulsively to his breast that he
groaned with pain, sent a laybrother to call Father Benedict, confided
his child to him, and walked towards home with drooping head.

Hitherto Ulrich had not known whether to enjoy or dread the thought of
going to the monastery-school. The preparations had been pleasant
enough, and the prospect of sharing the same bench with the sons of
noblemen and aristocratic citizens, flattered his unity; but when he saw
his father depart, his heart melted and his eyes grew wet. The monk;
noticing this, drew him towards him, patted his shoulder, and said: "Keep
up your courage! You will see that it is far pleasanter with us, than
down in the Richtberg."

This gave Ulrich food for thought, and he did not glance around as the
Father led him up the steep stairs to the landing-place, and past the
refectory into the court-yard.

Monks were pacing silently up and down the corridors that surrounded it,
and one after another raised his shaven head higher over his white cowl,
to cast a look at the new pupil.

Behind the court-yard stood the stately, gable-roofed building containing
the guest-rooms, and between it and the church lay the school-garden,
a meadow planted with fruit trees, separated from the highway by a wall.