remembered during the mysterious night, when he watched his armour in the chapel: “Dark night precedes the morn, So grief may joyance bring, And death leads through the wintry grave To life’s eternal spring.” Sir Hugh dared not enter the apartment of his nephew; for the latter, in the wildness of his delirium, always addressed the old man as if he had been Otto von Trautwangen, commanding him in a stern angry voice to leave the room, otherwise he would throw at his head all the scorching firebrands that were now heaped upon his own. At such times he indeed grappled violently at the bandage which was tied over his wounds; and his uncle, with mournful aspect, and sighing deeply, came back to the hall, passing by that heavy oak-pannelled door, at which, alas! the blooming happy countenances of Bertha and Otto never more presented themselves. However, when the wounded youth had only his beloved sister beside him, especially in the night hours, when the room was illuminated by a single lamp placed in a corner, he was tranquil and happy, so that, now and then, he could even tell her long stories; among which she once heard from him the narrative which here follows:-- “On the shores of the North Sea there lies a country named East Friesland, where, even at this day, there are endless dissensions between the princes and their vassals; the former insisting that every one should blindly submit to their sovereign will and pleasure, while the latter no less vehemently maintain, that their opinions should be consulted on all subjects. Thus, through the whole land, there are constant insurrections and tumults, even like those, dear Bertha, which now torment the brain of your wounded brother. Yet in East Friesland there is a wondrous castle stationed on a rock, whence there beams, far and wide, a pale tranquil light, the reflection as it were of the moon and stars, whose radiance falls ever brightly and unbroken on these lofty towers. In the castle dwells a female descendant of that ancient race named the Druden. They were powerful wizards and magicians; and such too is this female descendant with whom we claim relationship; for she is our aunt. Her name is the Lady Minnatrost,[1] importing, that by love she affords consolation to unfortunate lovers; and all day long she boils wonder-working flowers and roots in a kettle, which is made of pure gold. I had one evening lost my way, and drew up my horse’s reins when opposite to her lofty castle, which proudly diffuses its light over all that country, which is elsewhere flat and level. Tired as I then was, and in need of refreshment, I felt as if some mysterious obstacle always lay in my road when I wished to spur my horse up the steep acclivity. The castle too was so silent, and so wholly unknown to me, that I felt an unwonted dread of approaching it. Thus, while I stood still, and doubted what course I ought to take, lo! there came riding at a rapid pace, along the plain, a well-accoutred