Like a wild man had Eckart roamed about the woods, unconscious of himself or his misfortunes; he had lost all thought, and in blank stupefaction satisfied his hunger with roots and herbs: the hero could not now be recognised by any one, so sore had the days of his despair defaced him. As the storm came on, he awoke from his stupefaction, and again felt his existence and his woes, and saw the misery that had befallen him. He raised a loud cry of lamentation for his children; he tore his white hair; and called out, in the bellowing of the storm: "Whither, whither are ye gone, ye parts of my heart? And how is all strength departed from me, that I could not even avenge your death? Why did I hold back my arm, and did not send to death him who had given my heart these deadly stabs? Ha, fool, thou deservest that the tyrant should mock thee, since thy powerless arm and thy silly heart withstood not the murderer. Now, O now were he with me! But it is in vain to wish for vengeance, when the moment is gone by." Thus came on the night, and Eckart wandered to and fro in his sorrow. From a distance he heard as it were a voice calling for help. Directing his steps by the sound, he came up to a man in the darkness, who was leaning on the stem of a tree, and mournfully entreating to be guided to his road. Eckart started at the voice, for it seemed familiar to him; but he soon recovered, and perceived that the lost wayfarer was the Duke of Burgundy. Then he raised his hand to his sword, to cut down the man who had been the murderer of his children; his fury came on him with new force, and he was upon the point of finishing his bloody task, when all at once he stopped, for his oath and the word he had pledged came into his mind. He took his enemy's hand, and led him to the quarter where he thought the road must be. The Duke foredone and weary Sank in the wilder'd breaks; Him in the tempest dreary He on his shoulders takes. Said Burgundy: "I'm giving Much toil to thee, I fear." Eckart replied: "The living On Earth have much to bear." "Yet," said the Duke, "believe me, Were we out of the wood, Since now thou dost relieve me, Thy sorrows I'll make good." The hero at this promise Felt on his cheek the tear; Said he: "Indeed I nowise Do look for payment here." "Harder our plight is growing," The Duke cries, dreading scath, "Now whither are we going? Who art thou? Art thou Death?" "Not Death," said he, still weeping, "Or any fiend am I; Thy life is in God's keeping, Thy ways are in his eye." "Ah," said the Duke, repenting, "My breast is foul within; I tremble, while lamenting, Lest God requite my sin. My truest friend I've banish'd, His children have I slain, In wrath from me he vanish'd, As foe he comes again.