lly sacred,
but your end redeemed all."

"The false religion always tries to counterfeit the garb, the language,
the aspect of the true," answered the German; "for that reason, I
purposely suffered my tale to occasion that very fear and anxiety you
speak of, conscious that the most scrupulous would be contented when the
whole was finished."

This German was one of a new school, of which England as yet knows
nothing. We shall see hereafter what it will produce.

The student left them at Friedberg, and our travellers proceeded to
Glenhausen,--a spot interesting to lovers; for here Frederick the First
was won by the beauty of Gela, and, in the midst of an island vale, he
built the Imperial Palace, in honour of the lady of his love. This spot
is, indeed, well chosen of itself; the mountains of the Rhinegeburg
close it in with the green gloom of woods and the glancing waters of the
Kinz.

"Still, wherever we go," said Trevylyan, "we find all tradition is
connected with love; and history, for that reason, hallows less than
romance."

"It is singular," said Vane, moralizing, "that love makes but a small
part of our actual lives, but is yet the master-key to our sympathies.
The hardest of us, who laugh at the passion when they see it palpably
before them, are arrested by some dim tradition of its existence in the
past. It is as if life had few opportunities of bringing out certain
qualities within us, so that they always remain untold and dormant,
susceptible to thought, but deaf to action."

"You refine and mystify too much," said Trevylyan, smiling; "none of
us have any faculty, any passion, uncalled forth, if we have _really_
loved, though but for a day."

Gertrude smiled, and drawing her arm within his, Trevylyan left Vane to
philosophize on passion,--a fit occupation for one who had never felt
it.

"Here let us pause," said Trevylyan, afterwards, as they visited the
remains of the ancient palace, and the sun glittered on the scene, "to
recall the old chivalric day of the gallant Barbarossa; let us suppose
him commencing the last great action of his life; let us picture him as
setting out for the Holy Land. Imagine him issuing from those walls on
his white charger,--his fiery eye somewhat dimmed by years, and his
hair blanched; but nobler from the impress of time itself,--the clang of
arms; the tramp of steeds; banners on high; music pealing from hill to
hill; the red cross and the nodding plume; the sun, as now