In the second act we are at the Wartburg, in the Hall of Song in which those tournaments of minstrelsy were held, for which the castle was celebrated in the middle ages. Elisabeth enters, bringing a greeting to the hall, whose threshold she has not crossed since Tannhaeuser's mysterious departure. Her joyous tones have scarcely ceased when Tannhaeuser, led by Wolfram, appears and falls at the feet of the youthful Princess. Her pure spirit cannot conceive aught of dishonour in his absence, and she welcomes him back to her heart with girlish trust. Now the guests assemble and, marshalled in order, take their places for the singers' tourney. The Landgrave announces the subject of the contest--the power Of love--and more than hints that the hand of Elisabeth is to be the victor's prize. The singers in turn take their harps and pour forth their improvisations; Wolfram sings of the chaste ideal which he worships from afar, Walther of the pure fount of virtue from which he draws his inspiration, and the warrior Biterolf praises the chivalrous passion of the soldier. Each in turn is interrupted by Tannhaeuser, who, with ever-growing vehemence, scoffs at the pale raptures of his friends. A kind of madness possesses him, and as the hymns in praise of love recall to his memory the amorous orgies of the Venusberg, he gradually loses all self-control, and ends by bursting out with a wild hymn in praise of the goddess herself. The horror-stricken women rush from the hall, and the men, sword in hand, prepare to execute summary justice upon the self-convicted sinner; but Elisabeth dashes in before the points of their swords, and in broken accents begs pardon for her recreant lover in the name of the Saviour of them all. Touched by her agonised pleading the angry knights let fall their weapons, while Tannhaeuser, as his madness slips from him and he realises all that he has lost, falls repentant and prostrate upon the earth. The Landgrave bids him hasten to Rome, where alone he may find pardon for a sin so heinous. Far below in the valley a band of young pilgrims is passing, and the sound of their solemn hymn rises to the castle windows; the pious strains put new life into the despairing Tannhaeuser, and crying 'To Rome, to Rome,' he staggers from the hall.