The guide came down again from his position on the rock, after having, as he thought, sufficiently satisfied the curiosity of his companion. "This is called the Nebelhöhle, or the Misty Hollow," said he; "it is little known in the country, excepting to huntsmen and shepherds, and few venture to enter it, as all kinds of fearful stories are abroad of ghosts inhabiting its chambers. I would not advise any one who is not minutely acquainted with its locality to venture down, for there are deep cavities and subterranean waters, whence no one would see the light again, if once entangled amidst their intricacies. There are also secret passages and compartments known only to five individuals now alive." "But the banished knight," asked Albert, "where is he?" "Take the torch, and follow me," replied the other, and led the way though a side passage. They had proceeded about twenty paces, when Albert thought he heard the deep tones resembling those of an organ. He drew the attention of his leader to it. "That is some one singing," the fifer answered, "the voice sounds particularly beautiful and full in these caverns. When two or three men join their voices together, it resembles the full chorus of monks chanting the _Ora_." The music became still plainer; and as they approached the spot, the expressive feeling of a beautiful melody was distinctly heard. They were obliged to bend themselves under the corner of a rock, as they proceeded, when the voice of the songster sounded from above, and broke in repeated echo on the indentations of the wall of rock, until it was lost in the mingled noises of dripping water from the moist stones, and the murmur of a subterranean waterfall. "That is the place," said the guide; "above there, in the side of the rock, is the habitation of the unhappy man. Hearken to his voice! We'll wait and listen till he has finished, for he never was accustomed to be interrupted, even when he lived above ground." It was with great difficulty that they could catch the following words on account of the great echo and the murmur of falling and rushing water. The tow'r from whence my childhood gazed Upon the subject fields so fair, Now bears a stranger's banner, raised Where erst my father's fann'd the air. To ruin sink my father's halls, The portion of my ancestry; O'erthrown and unavenged, the walls In earth's deep bosom buried lie. O'er fields, where once in happier tide My jocund bugle horn I blew, The savage foemen fiercely ride: A noble quarry they pursue. I am their game, the quarry chased; The slot-hound follows where he flies, Athirst the stag's warm blood to taste, Whose antlers[1] are the hunter's prize.