On a high balcony, illumined by the last rays of the setting sun reflected from the wide ocean, behold, the three ladies were now seated, along with the knights and the Moorish prince, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the flowers, that were steeped in the dews of evening, and passing the time with songs and harp-music, or in telling pleasant stories. Sir Folko and his Moorish captive, even as they had before contended on the bloody field, now vied no less with each other, in these courteous arts by which noble ladies are best to be entertained, and if the wreath of victory had before hung for a long space doubtfully betwixt them, so it was yet more difficult to say which of the two was the more accomplished and polite. Gabrielle, on whom the prince continued to bestow all his attention, contrived by many ingenious devices to withdraw herself from the fixed gaze which he so often directed towards her, and seemed more disposed to speak kindly and confidentially with the Knight of Montfaucon. Blanchefleur, who had so long been wont to hang down her head in sadness and deep thought, now became, in the presence of her dearly-beloved and honoured brother, so cheerful, and in beauty so resplendent, that to the white rose, her former emblem, she could scarcely afford any fitting comparison. Only the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried sat lost in deep, silent, and, it might have been said, stern reflection; nor could the flattery of Sir Folko or the prince, nor the kind raillery of Gabrielle, induce her on this evening to tell one romantic story, or to play one note upon the harp. At last she became almost forgotten among them, or looked on merely, without being spoken to; so that she seemed in the society of these four mirthful companions more like a beautiful statue than a living being.