“Well, I do declare!” exclaimed Moida, bursting into a laugh. Then, suddenly becoming grave: “But, no, no, I mustn’t laugh. I agree with you: love _is_ everything, and Ulrich is my nightingale. Why, every letter he writes to me is a sweet song of love.” For several minutes after Moida uttered these words Walburga remained silent. They had awakened in her breast longings which had better have slept for ever. But we cannot escape from ourselves; and she was born with a nature full of tenderness and sympathy. It made her yearn for something which she might call all her own, something to serve and cherish and suffer for. Home! home!—this was the secret craving of Walburga’s soul. But, alas! she had barely the glimmer of a hope that this happiness would ever be hers; and even good Eckhart’s words, which she now repeated to herself, did not bring her the usual comfort. The poor girl, too, was an orphan; her brother was away from her, and a day would come when Moida would fly off into Ulrich’s arms. “And, oh! then I’ll be lonely indeed,” she sighed. While Walburga was thus musing on her fate Moida took up her zither,[47] and, seating herself by the open window, sang in a rich contralto voice one of the old Volkslied, beginning: “Ach. wie ist’s möglich dann, Das ich dich lassen kann! Hab dich von Herzen lieb, Das Glaube mir!” which may be rendered: “Ah! how can I from thee depart? Believe me, my heart’s love thou art!” When the song was finished Walburga, in whose eyes tears were glistening, said: “Nobody can beat my nightingale singing except you. Oh! who will sing for me when you are gone?” “Gone! Why, I never mean to leave you, dear Walburga; no, never!” cried Moida. “Ah! Ulrich will carry you away; and then—” “Yes, yes, so he will, the dear boy! and then I’ll take you in my arms, and carry you away too, and thus we’ll all three fly off together,” interrupted the sunny-hearted girl. Then Moida sang another song, and another, and another, until one by one all the stars came out of their hiding-places in the sky; and never did they shine down upon two warmer friends than these. * * * * * In the fairest valley of Tyrol, and perched on a spur of the mountain, a thousand feet above the swift-flowing river which gives the Innthal its name, stands Loewenstein Castle. How admirably placed it is! From afar the enemy might be espied approaching; and when he came near it needed stout lungs as well as a bold heart to climb the steep ascent which led to its walls, for ’tis like an eagle’s eyrie to get at. When the castle was built many an eagle used to soar above its battlements, and the dense pine forest which covered the land was the haunt of wolves and bears.