a tempest like this, must ever be looked on as a friend; and among friends, methinks it is but a foolish and discourteous habit, evermore to ask after the first greeting what news are abroad; for----.” The minstrel paused as the pilgrim now entered the hall. He was a man of middle age, neither very grave nor very merry, though, according to the custom of all Frenchmen, he spoke much and rapidly, giving them to understand that he was by birth an independent nobleman; and that a solemn vow, which his father had imposed on him, rendered it his duty to make a pilgrimage into the Holy Land. This duty he thought to perform with most convenience and safety under the protecting banners of King Richard, otherwise he would scarcely ever have turned a pilgrim, and so forth. From this shallow stream of words the old Sir Hugh von Trautwangen had immediately turned away. He sat looking fixedly on the ground, and drinking his wine, while the gleam, which was now and then visible in his eyes, proved that his thoughts were busied with the past; it seemed, indeed, as if, along with his wine, he drank up cherished recollections; and so he had been accustomed to sit through many a long evening, with the minstrel, Walter, beside him, who struck now and then a few deep chords on his harp. But meanwhile the stranger continued to talk, also to eat and drink, without the slightest discomposure, praising, however, the viands and Johannisberg which were before him, with the hospitality and courtesy of his entertainer. But at length it so happened, that the pilgrim mentioned a name, by which the knight and the minstrel were both roused, as if they had been struck by a flash of lightning. He spoke of the renowned Chevalier de Montfaucon; and his hearers did not fail to remember how nearly this was connected with the fortunes of Sir Otto von Trautwangen.