country round, he and his brother, who loved him dearly, took different directions, one going eastward, and the other north. They put on various disguises as they went, Bertram appearing now in the guise of a holy Palmer, now as a wandering minstrel As he was sitting, despondent and well-nigh despairing, beneath a hawthorn tree, an aged monk came by, and on seeing the supposed minstrel’s face of sorrow, said to him, “All minstrels yet that e’er I saw Are full of game and glee, But thou art sad and woe-begone; I marvel whence it be.” Bertram replied that he served an aged lord whose only child had been stolen away, and that he would know no happiness until he had found her. The pilgrim comforted him and bade him hope, telling him that “Behind yon hills so steep and high, Down in a lonely glen, There stands a castle fair and strong, Far from the abode of men.” Saying that he had heard a lady’s voice lamenting in this lonely tower, he passed on, giving Bertram the hope that now at last his quest was ended. He made his way to that strong castle, and with his music prevailed upon the porter to let him stay near at hand in a cavern; for the porter refused to admit him to the castle in the absence of his lord, though at the same time giving him food and directing him to the cave. He piped all day and watched all night, and was rewarded by hearing his lady’s voice lamenting within the walls of her prison. On the second night he caught a glimpse of her beauteous form, fair as the moonbeams that shone around the tower. On the third night, worn with watching, he slept, and only awakened as dawn drew nigh. Grasping his weapon, he stole near to the castle walls, when to his amazement, he saw his lady descend from her window by a ladder of rope, held for her by a youth in Highland dress. Stunned at the sight, he could not move to follow them, till they had left behind them the castle where the lady had been held captive, and were about to disappear over the hill. Silently and swiftly then he drew near, and crying furiously, “Vile traitor! yield that lady up!” fell upon the youth who accompanied her, who in his turn fought as furiously as he. In a few moments Bertram’s antagonist lay stretched on the ground; and as he gave him the fatal thrust he cried, “Die, traitor, die!” The lady recognised his voice, and rushing forward, shrieked, “Stay! stay! it is thy brother.” But the sword of Bertram, already descending with the force of rage and fury in the blow, could not be stayed until too late. The fair maid’s breast was pierced by the sword of the knight who loved her, and she sank down by the side of the youth who had delivered her. It was indeed Bertram’s brother, who had succeeded in his search; and the dying maiden found time to tell of his