"'The sun had been some time set, and from out the gloomy clouds which had come down and spread upon the hill, the moon rose, red and fiery. The night wind began to sigh through the lofty trees, and, touched by its icy breath, the thicket shuddered and shivered like one in the chills of fever. The night birds rose screaming from the rocks, and began their wavering flight. The woodland streams rushed louder--the distant waterfalls lifted their voices. But as the moon begun to shine more brightly through the trees, the tones of distant singing came faintly over the valley. Heinrich rose. He thought how the masters on the Wartburg were now beginning their pious evening hymns. He saw Mathilda, as she retired, casting looks of affection at Wolfframb--whom she loved--with a heart brimming over with fondness and longing. Heinrich took his lute and begun a song such as perhaps he had never sung before. The night wind paused; the thickets and trees kept silence; the tones went gleaming through the woodland shadows as if they were part of the moonlight. But as this song was dying away in sighs of bitter sorrow, a sudden burst of shrill, piercing laughter rang out behind him. He turned quickly round, startled, and saw a tall dark form, which, ere he could collect his thoughts, began to speak in a disagreeable, sneering tone: "'"Aha! I have been searching about here for a considerable time to see who might be singing so beautifully at this hour of the night. So it is you, is it, Heinrich of Ofterdingen? Ha! I might have known that, for you are certainly by far the poorest (which is not saying little) of all the 'masters,' as folks call them, up on the Wartburg there; and that silly song, without either meaning or melody, could only have come from your mouth." "'Half still alarmed, half glowing in anger, Heinrich cried: "'"And who may you be, who know me and think you can attack me here with contumely and scorn?" And he laid his hand on his sword. But the dark stranger gave another of his screaming laughs, and, as he did, a ray of moonlight fell upon his deathly pale face, so that Ofterdingen could see, with much distinctness, the wild-gleaming eyes, the sunken cheeks, the pointed, reddish beard, the mouth with its fixed sneering smile, and the barret-cap with its black feather. "'"Heyday, young sir!" said the stranger; "are you going to come at me with lethal weapons because I criticise your songs? I know you singers do not like anything but praise, and expect to receive it for everything that drops from your renowned lips, though there be nothing good about it. But just because that is not my way, and because I tell you candidly that instead of being a master you are but a mediocre scholar and learner of the noble singer's craft, you ought to see that I am your true friend, and mean you kindly."