I saw that we were standing by the dead of some noble family, for the repose of whose soul the monks were offering up their prayers. I drew a little nearer. Upon the snow-like cushions within the casket a young girl lay sleeping the last deep and solemn sleep. Or was it a vision?—one of that mystical land, whose white portals are beyond the sun; that land where there is no shadow, no stain; where there is beauty celestial, peace everlasting? No, it was all the future we ever see; it was still this side the gates of eternity; it was death. A chaplet of flowers crowned her brow, all colorless as marble, and garlands of flowers wreathed her robe, that was purer than fleece; but her hands held no lilies, no jasmine; more sacred than these, they held a small golden crucifix, an emblem imperishable, holy. The burning tapers threw not over the face, turned slightly toward the altar, that beautiful dream-light; it was the last inscription written by the spirit, even after it had seen down the radiant vista of immortal happiness. Ah! why offer prayers for a soul beyond the troubled sea, beyond the dread valley? O, frail humanity! Even then beside the pall, where rested the solemn silence no voice could break, stood one for whom the kneeling monks might have told a thousand _aves_. Reinhart raised his face suddenly. Straightening himself, he extended his arm with a wild gesture, uttering a laugh that grated clear up to the dome. “Did I not tell you?” he cried. “Did I not feel the mysterious summons that brought me to this spot? Do you see her? _It is she!_ It is her soul and mine that will abide together through all eternity.” The startled monks rose to their feet. The great arches of the Cathedral threw back his voice in terrible groans. Quick as thought I sprang toward him, but was hurled off with the ease of a giant. He stooped for a moment and put one hand to his head, as if a sudden faintness might have swept over him; but he did not touch the casket. Then, dropping on one knee beside it, he raised his face and said softly, so softly that the last word seemed to come to us from a great distance,— “O, beautiful soul, part of my spirit, I will not keep you waiting!” We gathered around and raised him up. It needed no force now; and when they laid him down again, with a great throbbing in my breast, I folded his hands. He had taken his life. O, Germany! like this fair day you lured a bird high up into your sunshine, a bird with brilliant plumes in its wings; then, before it had sung one song from the pinnacle where it rested, blackening suddenly into a storm, you killed it. Reinhart, poor Reinhart! you lured high up into the fantastic light of psychology; then before he had reared one minaret upon the temple where he climbed, you darkened suddenly into a gigantic gloom that, rising up like a storm, overwhelmed him. Yes, better had it been for Reinhart were the Suabians still dancing their dryad dances. [Illustration]