Some time after these events happened on the shores of the north sea, Sir Otto von Trautwangen and his friend Theobaldo were one day seated together on the turf beneath the luxuriant shade of a forest in France; the sun was high in the cloudless heaven, and his rays, without scorching, made a fine play of light and shade as they descended through the leafy covert. Their horses meanwhile grazed tranquilly in a neighbouring glade; for, notwithstanding the fiery temper of Sir Otto’s charger, they had made acquaintance during their long journey; so that the chestnut-coloured Pole led as quiet a life with his companion as he could desire. Sir Otto seemed lost in thought. He leaned backwards against the trunk of a tree, gazing up to the cloudless azure of heaven; so, while he was thus abstracted, Theobaldo took up a mandoline, which he always carried with him on his journey, and sang to its notes a few stanzas in praise of travelling and constant change of scene. “Hold, hold!” said Sir Otto, awakening from his reverie; “I cannot join in that ballad.” “Who desired that you should do so?” said Theobaldo, smiling. “Sing another. Few people can bear to repeat the same notes over and over, far less to hear them repeated; on which account there are so many poets and musicians.” “Nay, I have no wish to sing,” said Otto. “My heart is oppressed with a longing which music cannot gratify. Tell me, Theobaldo, is it not wholly inexplicable, that two such distinguished characters as Sir Folko de Montfaucon and his sister Gabrielle, with whose names all France rings, should thus evade all our endeavours to discover them?” “They are indeed like figures reflected from many mirrors,--like sounds repeated by manifold echoes,” answered Theobaldo. “The very rumours that we have heard of them render our senses confused, and defeat all our attempts. They are, in truth, become like phantoms from the ancient world of wonders and chivalry, of which every one relates whatever seems most incredible, and thinks that, under the auspices of such names, he has a right to demand belief for that which is the work of his own invention. They are idolized during their lifetime; and for this very reason, are, like other idols, no more in reality to be discovered.” “You wish that I should laugh,” said Sir Otto; “but give me the mandoline. Rather than this I shall sing.” “Mark you now,” said Theobaldo; “this is indeed what I desired. Sing, I pray you; for music may, in truth, be impersonized as the purest and kindest angel, who is permitted by Providence to visit and console unhappy mortals.” Otto then touched the lute, and sung to its accompaniment an address to a little bird that was just then fluttering above him:--