How long I wandered I do not know. I had my rapier--I feared nothing. I had bread in my wallet--I would not grow hungry. I drank a clear draught from a moss-clustered spring gushing out of the primeval rock. I started a squirrel and sent him scampering away across the upper branches. I followed for a long way into the thickets some calling thrush that lured me onward and onward like a sweet-voiced will-o’-the-wisp. At last I brought myself upon a little path that led upward beside a trickling brook, over ferns and bluebells; with here and there the tracks of some loitering deer. The sun was striking in golden slants through a clearing, and I sat down upon a fallen log to listen to the rustling melody of the greenwood. There I fell naturally into a musing. My gift of sonnet-making came back to me. I was wandering into some imitation of Petrarco in praise of the glories of the forest, when I detected a sound--a human sound. Nothing to alarm, that was certain, though I confess in that strange woodland I clapped a hand instinctively upon my hilt. It was the voice of a woman--as I guessed, of a young girl. Not wishing to have her burst suddenly upon me, I stepped lightly back into a thicket and waited. The singer was quite out of sight, although her clear crooning music proclaimed that she was close at hand. Nearer she came, and first I saw a pair of white feet and ankles twinkling in and out amid the twigs and grasses,--feet that Messere Raffaello would have rejoiced to get for model. I saw the feet while yet the screen of beech saplings hid her face. Her song was in broad Harz dialect. I caught glimpses of a loose blue frock. Then into the open she passed, and as I stepped from my covert I had a sight of a daintily poised head, two long braids of golden hair, cheeks exceeding red, eyes exceeding blue, and such prettily curved lines of face and throat that they seemed blooming into life from some Vatican canvass. A sight for a moment only. Back went the head like a startled doe’s. The cheeks flashed to scarlet. She drew up with abrupt pride, as well she might, upon seeing a totally strange gentleman step from a covert. I was half ashamed at my action, but reflected that a Harz peasant maid was not likely to prove timid or prudish. “Fair greetings, my fine lass,” I said in my best German; “this is truly a pleasant day to go walking in the greenwood.” She surveyed me very steadily, then to my infinite surprise crossed herself upon the breast. “I think,” said she, looking at me with great soberness, “that you are the Master Devil. But I warn you, you can do me no hurt, for I am an honest Christian maid, and the blessed St. Anna is my protectress.” Was ever a good cavalier greeted thus before! I confess it was I who was staggered a little, although I could scarcely keep from laughing. “My worthy maiden,” said I, “I will not pretend to saintly virtues, but I am not so often known as the Master Devil as the Graf von Regenstein.”