=Immo and Hildegard.= As the sun went down, it threw its golden light over the heights on which the Idisburg stands. The old tower glowed, bathed in the many-colored light, and the branches of the bramble-berry overspread the low wall of the castle with a net work of purple and gold. In the lower portion of the enclosed court, the children of the townspeople, brought there by their parents, were shouting and calling in their play. On the highest point within the castle wall, stands a linden tree, that makes a thick arbor, with its broad leaves reaching nearly to the ground. It was a lovely spot. Wild hare-bells bloomed in its light shade, and little butterflies fluttered here and there. The birds gathered their young ones together in the sheltering branches of the tree, and the crickets chirped in chorus to the note of the feathered songsters. Here sat Hildegard, the count’s daughter, her hands folded in her lap as she looked down into the valley, over the fields of heather, over the forest trees, and over the rolling hills, far into the distance, where earth and sky seemed to melt together in the evening glow. At a respectful distance, some old servingmen, who had been sent up there for her protection, were lying on the ground, but their backs were turned to the maiden as they looked down to the Main, and pointed out to one another the border towns of the enemy, descried under the light clouds. Where Hildegard sat all was still; only a few sounds from the bustling camp made their way up to her. From one side came the lowing of the cows, and every now and then a hoof drew nearer, and the leaves of her tree were pulled about, and there was a crackling and a rustling in the branches. Hildegard turned and scared away the intruders, but they came back again, and the maiden at last forgot in her dreaming her dainty-mouthed visitors. Her lips stirred, and softly sounded the words of a holy hymn, as she sang: Audi, benigne Conditor, Nostras preces cum fletibus Hear, Kind Creator, Our prayers and our weeping. But, in her singing, her thoughts dwelt less on the Creator than on a certain suppliant who, only a few weeks before, had repeated these same words to her in jest. And while she sang, and with clear eyes looked straight before her, it seemed to her that her song was echoed from above her in the tree. She stopped singing; then there was a rustling in the branches, and through the whispering of the leaves, she heard the same air repeated above her head, but to other words; and she heard from the height: Rana coaxit suaviter In foliis viridibus. The frog croaks softly In the green herbage.