One evening, however, he was sitting with Walter, the minstrel, at the great round table, on which the silver-embossed goblets full of old Johannisberg stood betwixt them, while out of doors there was an April shower, pouring and rattling with such vehemence, as if it would never have an end. “Pour on, pour on!” cried Sir Hugh, looking kindly towards the window. “By this means I am assured that my friend Walter will for this night not desert me. So then, long may the wind blow and the rain beat around us!” The minstrel took up his goblet of Rhenish, and joined in this toast with his noble entertainer, glad to find that he for a moment seemed cheerful, as a traveller, who has lost his way on the cloud-covered mountains, rejoices when the sunbeams once more break out around him. “In truth,” resumed the old knight, “I know not how I could bear with the weary load of time, were it not for your songs and your pleasant discourse. Both of us are old, but the white locks on my head are methinks like the withered moss that waves in winter on some old tottering monument; while to you they are like a snow-white wreath, with which the hands of courteous ladies have adorned your head, as a reward for the many pleasant songs that you have sung to them. Come oftener then, I pray you, and stay longer, that the sternness of my grief may be soothed, and that my thoughts may not vainly dwell on those past joys which will never return.” Hereupon the two old men shook hands across their wine-cups, and the minstrel was about to speak, when, lo! a squire came hastily into the hall, and announced that there was a pilgrim without, who, on account of the violent rain and approaching darkness, might not proceed farther on his way, but had begged for shelter and refreshment. “He comes at an unfitting time!” muttered Sir Hugh, “I wish not now for stranger guests. However, let him be brought into the castle. As to this, you needed not to ask my permission in such weather. Place another chair also at the table; bring more wine, with some food, and a silver goblet, for our visitor. Has he announced from what country he has come hither?” “He is a native of France,” answered the squire, and withdrew. “Now, mark you,” said the old minstrel, “since we were to be disturbed, it is at least fortunate that the stranger should prove a Frenchman; for he may perhaps bring us good tidings of the young Sir Otto von Trautwangen.” “I pray you, speak not thus,” said the old knight. “He who longs anxiously for tidings of friends at a distance, is either disappointed altogether, or hears that by which his heart will only be rendered more unquiet. Therefore, grant me your promise, that you will not act the foolish part of asking questions, but wait patiently for whatever intelligence this guest of his own accord may impart to us.” “Right willingly,” said the minstrel, “do I promise what you demand of me; for a stranger, especially one who comes during