She slipped on a pair of wooden shoes, and I heard her go clattering away down a long dark corridor. “Sister Ilsa:--” I wonder if, of all the multitude of mendicants who sought alms while the nuns were in Quedlinburg, one had ever emotions and thoughts like mine! It seemed a century that I waited. Probably it was only a few moments. I was growing very cold, but not with the winter wind. Then a warm rush of blood tingled from crown to heels--another nun was approaching the grille. I could have told that step from a thousand. Overcome for the instant, I felt my strength failing me. I caught an iron bar of the lattice, and leaned there stupidly, dumbly. Then a voice, ah! what a voice. “Alas! poor man, so overcome by hunger and fatigue you cannot stand upright, be of good cheer. See, here is good bread and beef brawn. And if you are very cold, though I cannot let you in, I will fetch some _aqua vitae_ from the buttery.” “Come, Graf von Lichtenstein zum Regenstein,” I exhorted myself, as though for a sore ordeal; “play your part as a man!” By an action of real will, I straightened, looked her fairly in the eye, and with unblushing countenance repeated my story. She thrust the food through the grille, and I began eating it with feigned heartiness, although I rejected her offer of liquors. The act of devouring gave me excuse for eying her without speaking. She was exceedingly pallid; the white coif and the black veil over it added to the effect of marble. There were lines around her lips and below her eyes which I misliked greatly; but to me no luxurious Venetian goddess of Palma Vecchio could have seemed more fair. Her hand touched mine as she reached a piece of meat, and a kind of electric fire sprang through me. I watched shrewdly, to be sure that we were quite alone. The old nun had clearly been glad of a substitute, and the chill day had quenched the usual convent curiosity. All had doubtless sought a genial hearth fire. After my eating had slacked a little, my benefactress began to ply me with questions as to my past pilgrimages and future wandering, and I answered as before, inventing shamelessly. At last she said:-- “I should think God, if He is really so good as we are taught, could forgive you after a little more. Surely you have long since paid out the price for your evil words to your mother.” “So I trust, holy Lady,” said I, “but I have not told you yet, I think, that I have vowed to spend all my life as a pilgrim; and can vows, even lightly taken, ever be broken?” I have called her pale, but now she turned ashen. She in turn clutched at the grille. Her lips were opened, but without speech. With the iron lattice between us, but our faces quite close, I spoke softly. “Do you not know me, Ilsa?”