How the Falcon came to Sir Otto von Trautwangen. It was now a beautiful summer evening, when Sir Otto von Trautwangen, still among the Finland mountains, had seated himself on a rocky cliff, and, as it often times happened, played for pastime on his harp, and sang thereto a love ditty addressed to his beautiful Gabrielle. His station was still not far from the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost; for, on account of various negotiations that had been begun with the pagans, the Christians had delayed till this beautiful season any farther attack, and the sea-monarch still kept watch with Sir Otto on the frontiers. Just now the latter was about to lay aside his harp, and proceed on one of his accustomed visits to the Lady Minnatrost, when suddenly his attention was arrested by the waving and fluttering of wings round his head. Thinking only that this must be a bat, or night-hawk, whose visit was by no means agreeable to him, he clapped his hands and shouted, in order to drive away the intruder. This seemed, however, to have rather encouraged the yet invisible guest, and in a few moments a beautiful falcon came before him, and clung, as if with kind and humble entreaties, to his breast. The experienced hunter could not fail to recognise the cherished favourite of the Knight of Montfaucon, which he had so often seen in the woods, more especially as he perceived the golden chain, with the colours and arms of the chevalier, round his neck. “Good Heaven!” sighed Sir Otto, “is then the heroic Sir Folko so untimely fallen?” For he well knew, from the stories told him by De Montfaucon, that such a noble bird would never forsake his master but in death; and then that he would fly about over lands and seas, until he had found some one equal in valour and greatness to him whom he had thus lost. “Would to Heaven!” said Sir Otto, looking at the wise expressive eyes of the poor bird, “that thou could’st speak to me but four or five words, in answer to the whole multitude of questions which now rise up within my breast!” And as it oftentimes comes to pass, that the foolish wishes we have formed are granted when we least expect their fulfilment, and that they are the cause of pain instead of pleasure, so it happened to the young Knight of Trautwangen. He marked the rose-coloured parchment in the falcon’s collar, drew it out, and read thereon the love-sonnet of Sir Folko, addressed to Gabrielle, and her kind and loving answer thereto, which had never reached the hands of that knight, whose heart would therewith have been so refreshed and delighted, while it now struck like a deadly arrow the inmost soul of Sir Otto, who, of all men, was the last in the world into whose possession the parchment should ever have arrived.