r heart entirely to his control. His wild
spirit, his dark beauty, his daring valour, won while they awed her; and
in the fitfulness of his nature were those perpetual springs of hope
and fear that are the fountains of ever-agitated love. She saw with
increasing grief the change that was growing over Otho's mind; nor did
she divine the cause. "Surely I have not offended him?" thought she.

Among the companions of Otho was one who possessed a singular sway
over him. He was a knight of that mysterious Order of the Temple, which
exercised at one time so great a command over the minds of men.

A severe and dangerous wound in a brawl with an English knight had
confined the Templar at Frankfort, and prevented his joining the
Crusade. During his slow recovery he had formed an intimacy with Otho,
and, taking up his residence at the castle of Liebenstein, had been
struck with the beauty of Leoline. Prevented by his oath from marriage,
he allowed himself a double license in love, and doubted not, could he
disengage the young knight from his betrothed, that she would add a
new conquest to the many he had already achieved. Artfully therefore he
painted to Otho the various attractions of the Holy Cause; and, above
all, he failed not to describe, with glowing colours, the beauties who,
in the gorgeous East, distinguished with a prodigal favour the warriors
of the Cross. Dowries, unknown in the more sterile mountains of the
Rhine, accompanied the hand of these beauteous maidens; and even a
prince's daughter was not deemed, he said, too lofty a marriage for the
heroes who might win kingdoms for themselves.

"To me," said the Templar, "such hopes are eternally denied. But you,
were you not already betrothed, what fortunes might await you!"

By such discourses the ambition of Otho was perpetually aroused; they
served to deepen his discontent at his present obscurity, and to convert
to distaste the only solace it afforded in the innocence and affection
of Leoline.

One night, a minstrel sought shelter from the storm in the halls of
Liebenstein. His visit was welcomed by the chief, and he repaid the
hospitality he had received by the exercise of his art. He sang of the
chase, and the gaunt hound started from the hearth. He sang of love, and
Otho, forgetting his restless dreams, approached to Leoline, and
laid himself at her feet. Louder then and louder rose the strain. The
minstrel sang of war; he painted the feats of the Crusaders; he