he writer, and proved that the young ladies of 1519 were
not so ready with their pen, to express their tender feelings, as those
of the present day, when every village beauty can write an epistle to
her swain as long as her garter. The chronicle whence we have taken
this history, has happily preserved every word of the confused traces
on the parchment, which Albert's greedy eye now speedily deciphered as
follows:

"Remember your oath--fly bytimes. God conduct thee. Your Bertha----to
eternity."

These few words expressed a pious, tender feeling, dictated by a loving
heart. No wonder then that Albert was for some moments lost in a state
of joyous intoxication. He sent a look of gratitude toward the distant
blue mountains in the direction of Lichtenstein, and thanked his love
for the consolation these lines afforded him, for truly, never had he
stood so much in need of comfort, as at this moment. He was now
convinced, that a being, the dearest that existed in the world to him,
had not forsaken him. His heart resumed its usual cheerfulness, he
proffered his hand to the trusty messenger, thanked him cordially, and
asked him how he came by the strip of parchment.

"Did not I know," he answered, "that that little scrap of paper
contained no evil enchantment, for the young lady smiled most kindly as
she pressed it into my rough hand! I came to Blaubeuren last Wednesday,
where our army is encamped. There is a magnificent high altar in the
convent church there, over which the history of my patron, John the
Baptist, is represented. About seven years ago, when I was in great
distress of mind, and upon the point of suffering an ignominious death,
I made a vow, to perform a pilgrimage to the spot every year about this
time. I have never neglected this duty, having been saved from the
hangman's hand, by a miracle performed by my saint. When I have
finished my prayers, I always go to the abbot to present my offering of
a couple of fine geese or a lamb, or any thing else he may prefer. But,
sir, you will be tired with my gossip."

"No, no,--go on," said Albert; "come, sit down on that bench, beside
me."

"That would not be proper," answered the messenger; "for a common
peasant to place himself beside a gentleman, whom the general took such
notice of before all the people this morning, would be out of all
character: I would rather stand, with your permission." Albert seated
himself on the stone bench by the road side, and the count