Night overtook them during this conversation, darkness approached, and the moon rose in quiet light from the dark forest. They descended slowly towards the castle. Henry was full of thought, and his warlike inspiration had entirely vanished. He observed a strange confusion in the world; the moon assumed the appearance of a sympathizing spectator, and raised him above the ruggedness of the earth's surface, which there seemed so inconsiderable, however wild and insurmountable it might appear to the wanderer below. Zulima walked silently by his side, hand in hand with the child. Henry carried the lute. He endeavored to revive the sinking hope of his companion, to revisit once again her home, whilst he felt within him an earnest prompting to be her deliverer, though in what manner he knew not. A strange power seemed to lie in his simple words, for Zulima felt an unwonted tranquillity, and thanked him in the most touching manner for his consolation. The knights were yet in their cups, and the mother was engaged in household gossip. Henry had no desire to return to the noisy hall. He felt weary, and with his mother soon betook himself to the chamber, that was set apart for them. He told her before he fell asleep, what had happened, and soon sank into pleasant dreams. The merchants had also retired betimes, and were early astir. The knights were in deep sleep, when they started on their journey; but the lady of the house tenderly took leave of them. Zulima had slept but little; an inward joy had kept her awake; she made her appearance as they were departing, and humbly but eagerly assisted the travellers. Before they started, she brought with many tears her lute to Henry, and touchingly besought him to take it with him as a remembrance of Zulima. "It was my brother's lute," she said, "who gave it to me at our last parting; it is the only property I have saved. It seemed to please you yesterday, and you leave me an inestimable gift,--_sweet hope_. Take this small token of my gratitude, and let it be a pledge, that you will remember the poor Zulima. We shall certainly see each other again, and then perhaps I shall be much happier." Henry wept. He was unwilling to take the lute, so indispensable to her happiness. "Give me," said he, "the golden hand in your hair ornamented with the strange characters, unless it be memorial of your parents, sisters, or brothers, and take in return a veil which my mother will gladly resign to you." She finally yielded to his persuasions; and gave him the band, saying; "It is my name in my mother tongue, which I myself in better times embroidered on this band. Let it be a pleasure for you to gaze upon it, and to think that it has bound up my hair during a long and sorrowful period, and has grown pale with its possessor." Henry's mother loosed the veil and gave it to her, while she embraced her with tears. CHAPTER V.