When all was still, two little pages carried a golden cup containing the names of the singers to the Princess. She drew one folded paper and handed it to the pages. They read the name and then advanced to the middle of the hall. In high, clear voices they called out,-- "Sir Wolfram von Eschenbach, begin!" There was a short pause while Sir Wolfram rose to his feet. Tannhaeuser sat, as if in a dream, leaning upon his harp. His eyes strayed through the open doorway far across the peaceful valley to the dark and gloomy mountain beyond. And though an inner voice whispered: "Turn away your eyes, Sir Knight! 'Tis the abode of evil to which your thoughts are wandering. Have a care, or magic power will rule you again!" he heeded it not. But the eyes of Wolfram sought the pure face of the Princess on the throne. His hands evoked a tender, rippling strain from the harp--and he began to sing. He sang a quiet song of unselfish love, pure love, which doubts not and trusts ever; which gives more than it seeks. He sang of a love, half sacrifice, wholly devotion--which asks nothing, wants nothing, but gives, always gives. His song fell like a gentle prayer upon the ears of his listeners. "Bravo!" they cried, when he had finished. "You have done well, Sir Wolfram. Bravo!" And they clapped their hands and nodded in approval, whispering and smiling at one another. All but Tannhaeuser. His face had changed. It had become angry, impatient, defiant. This gentle strain that spoke of endless devotion and sacrifice; was that love? No, no. He arose abruptly. He seemed to be looking beyond the familiar hall and the well-known faces, to some unseen vision of delight. An uncanny smile played about his lips. He touched the harp strings, and they jangled with strange harmonies. The people were startled, alarmed. They half rose from their seats. Was it madness that inspired the knight? Ah! if they but knew. Tannhaeuser, heeding naught, lifted his voice and sang. And while he sang, the spell of enchantment enmeshed him again. Rose-colored mists swam before his eyes and blinded him. He heard the far-off strains of music, he saw the dancing figures, and a siren voice urged him on. He thought of endless pleasure, ceaseless delight. Again he forgot work, thrice-blessed work. He forgot the ancient hall; he forgot the pure presence of Elizabeth; he forgot his God. He sang a wicked song, an evil song, a song of sinful pleasure, a song of Venus. He had vowed that he would sing her praises forevermore. Now he would keep his word. His voice soared high in a wild hymn of praise. "Would you know love?" he cried, flinging aside his harp and stretching out his arms: "Fly to Venus. She can teach you!" His words struck the people like a thunder-bolt and left them stunned, horrified. Suddenly, like a wave of anger, arose the tumult of cries. "Listen! Hear him! Oh! Most horrible! He has been in the Venusburg."