So we waited, while many lights were lit, and men ran in and men ran out. I cannot tell just how mine host made the city gates unlock, and gaping grooms lead forth fresh palfreys; all that I left to Moritz. For myself I stood guard, hand on hilt, while Ilsa lay snug and warm on a great straw stack in one corner of the inn yard, hid from any ken save mine and that of the friendly moon. She had fallen asleep the instant she had touched her rude pillow. Pacing sentry before her couch I felt even as a would-be knight, keeping his vigil around the high altar all the dark hours before his accolade. I almost grudged the promptness wherewith the new horses were gathered. Once or twice I cast my eyes on her, a dark heap upon the yellow pile, then withdrew my sight as from a dazzling mystery whereof I was not worthy. And ever I kept repeating, “God is with us. God is with us.” Two hours at least she slept, before Moritz’s call summoned “All is ready!” I stepped across, and with infinite reluctance touched her hand. “We must be riding, Ilsa,” spoke I, as with a little sigh she turned and rubbed her eyes. “Oh! blessed waking,” was her first cry. “I dreamed I was again in the convent, and Aunt Theckla had ordered me to lie all night on the chapel stones spread out like a cross. Can I ever forget!--” “I will aid you,” I said, my arm under her. Her step was not so blithesome as when she mounted at Giessen, but she carried herself bravely. Moritz thanked and compounded with our zealous host. We rode out into the black night again. The inn lights were engulfed behind us. Then with only the stars and the sentinel arms of the great trees to point our pathway, we gave our new horses the spur, and once more for a long time Ilsa and I rode silently, side by side. It was a magic night. The touch of the spring was all in the air. The very ground was soft and spongy under the flying hoofs. In our nostrils blew the delicious odor of green things growing. Sometimes we were whirled by great black farmsteads where wakeful cocks crowed as we passed, and sleepy dogs arose to bark fitfully as our hoof beats died in the distance. Sometimes we saw the dim glint of the hurrying streams, and our horses plashed with cool strides across the unseen pebbles of the fords. Insensibly we knew the paths led upward, height succeeded height, we were skirting rolling hills which lifted spiked summits of trees against the faintly traced skyline. I knew we were entering the famous Thüringer Wald, the mighty forest land which rolled away, westward and northward, until it merged into our own wilder Harz.