; and all this grieved me, though indeed
I could not remedy it.

Strangest of all, as it seemed to me, was it that these twain who
erewhile had never spent an hour together without singing, would now
pass day after day without a song. But then I remembered how that the
maiden nightingale likewise pipes her sweetest only so long as her bosom
is full of pining love; but so soon as she has given her heart wholly to
her mate, her song grows shorter and less tender.

Not that this pair had as yet gone so far as this; and once, when I gave
them warning that they should not forget how to sing, they marvelled
at their own neglect, and as thereupon they began to sing it sounded
sweeter and stronger than in former days.

Among the youths who at that time enjoyed the hospitality of the
Waldstromers, Herdegen's friend, Franz von Welemisl, held the foremost
place. He was the son of a Bohemian baron, and his mother, who was dead,
had been of one of the noblest families of Hungary. And whereas his name
was somewhat hard to the German tongue, we one and all called him simply
Ritter Franz or Sir Franz. He was a well made and well favored youth in
face and limb, who had found such pleasure in my brother's company at
Erfurt that he had gone with him to Padua. His father's sudden death
had taken him home from college sooner than Herdegen, and he was now
in mourning weed. He ever held his head a little bowed, and whereas
Herdegen, with his brave, splendid manners and his long golden locks,
put some folks in mind of the sun, a poet might have likened his
friend to the moon, inasmuch as he had the same gentle mien and pale
countenance, which seemed all the more colorless for his thick, sheeny
black hair which framed it, with out a wave or a curl. His voice had
a sorrowful note, and it went to my heart to see how loving was his
devotion to my brother. He, for his part, was well pleased to find in
the young knight the companionship he had erewhile had in the pueri.

After the young Bohemian's father had departed this life, the Emperor
himself had dubbed his sorrowing son Knight, and nevertheless he was
devoid alike of pride and scornfulness. When, with his sad black eyes,
he looked into mine, humbly and as though craving comfort, I might
easily have lulled my soul with the glad thought that I likewise had
opened the door to Love; but then I cared not if I saw him, and I
thought of him but coldly, and this gave the lie to such hopes; what I