atitude to God, Hans Broemser again fought valiantly in the holy
cause.

Meanwhile at home in the hospitable keep above the Rhine a maiden
awaited with anxiety the return of her father. Often in the silent
hours, with sweetness and sunshine around her, without and within, she
stood on the castle-wall and she saw in reverie that blue Eastern
land, whilst she listened to the wild throbbing of her young heart in
which the blossoms of first love were bursting.

Then one night her father returned to the Rhineland.

In the moss-covered courtyard of the castle Mechtildis embraced her
father long and silently. Beside the maiden, now in her seventeenth
year, stood the young lord of Falkenstein. The youth bowed deeply to
the lord of the Broemserburg, and greeted him kindly with the words,
"Welcome home, father!" Then the vow made in the Syrian prison rose
like a spectre to pall the joy of the crusader's return.

In the banqueting-hall of the castle a large company had assembled to
celebrate the happy return of Hans Broemser and his faithful
companions. The praise of the crusaders resounded and many stories
were told of the dangers the heroes had encountered. With stirring
words the knight related to his listening guests how he himself had
fought in the sacred cause, and how he had suffered imprisonment among
the heathen. Then in a lower tone, and with solemn words, he told his
friends of the vow he had made in his hour of deep despair in the
Syrian dungeon.

The painful silence which followed was broken by a stifled cry, and
the knight's daughter, pale as the covering on the festive board, sank
unconscious to the floor. With burning cheek and flashing eye the
young lord of Falkenstein rose, and with a firm voice exclaimed,
"Mechtildis belongs to me; she has solemnly given herself to me
forever." The murmur soon subsided before the stern countenance of the
lord of the castle. "Mechtildis has been dedicated to heaven, not to
you, boy. The last of the Broemser race has sworn it, and abides by
it." The knight said this with suppressed fury, and soon his guests
departed in silence.

Mechtildis lay in her chamber in wild grief. The flickering lamp
beside the crucifix threw an unsteady light on the extended form of
the maiden who was measuring the tedious night hours in the
love-anguish of her young heart. To the distracted maid her chamber
seemed to be transformed to an oppressive dungeon. Seizing the lamp
with a trembling hand