All the noble guests who were there assembled made room and bowed respectfully; the hautboys and flutes played a cheering march; flower-wreaths were thrown lavishly on the heads of the happy and blushing pair. Having arrived at the upper end of the table, Gabrielle pointed out to her betrothed husband the noble Chevalier de Montfaucon, who lay there upon a sofa, attended and supported by his sister Blanchefleur. “I well knew,” said she, “that there was no sight which would be to you more welcome than that of your valiant adversary now so much recovered, and able to join in the festivities of our circle.” “This, indeed, I had not expected,” said Sir Otto; “yet I might have been well aware, that for your powers, beautiful enchantress, nothing could be too difficult.” “Hush, hush, speak not of my enchantments,” said Gabrielle; “my best influence is derived from the Ring, of which your valour has again won for me the possession.” Meanwhile Sir Folko, with the help of Blanchefleur, had raised himself on the couch. Pale indeed in complexion, but smiling kindly, he proffered his right hand to the victorious Knight of Trautwangen, which the latter took with as much emotion as if it had been that of a kind-hearted elder brother, and could scarcely refrain from pressing it to his lips. The whole party now sat down to table, and thereafter every one admired the fine figure of De Montfaucon, as he lay there in his light-blue mantle embroidered with gold; while his falcon, wounded like himself, sat on his pillow, sipping now and then out of the knight’s golden cup. “I am treated here like a sick child,” said Sir Folko, “who, wherever he goes, must have his toys along with him.” There were minstrels in attendance, who compared the knight to the wounded Adonis, of whom we read in the ancient fables; and every one allowed, that, from his graceful figure, as well as heroic courage, he might well have been the favourite of the goddess Cytherea.