ed at an open space in one of the terraces of
Sternfels, on which the moon shone bright and steady. "Behold!" he said,
in a ghastly voice, "behold!" and Warbeck saw on the sward the corpse of
the Templar, bathed with the blood that even still poured fast and warm
from his heart.

"Hark!" said Otho. "He it was who first made me waver in my vows to
Leoline; he persuaded me to wed yon whited falsehood. Hark! he, who had
thus wronged my real love, dishonoured me with my faithless bride, and
thus--thus--thus"--as grinding his teeth, he spurned again and again the
dead body of the Templar--"thus Leoline and myself are avenged!"

"And thy wife?" said Warbeck, pityingly.

"Fled,--fled with a hireling page. It is well! she was not worth the
sword that was once belted on--by Leoline."

The tradition, dear Gertrude, proceeds to tell us that Otho, though
often menaced by the rude justice of the day for the death of the
Templar, defied and escaped the menace. On the very night of his revenge
a long and delirious illness seized him; the generous Warbeck forgave,
forgot all, save that he had been once consecrated by Leoline's love.
He tended him through his sickness, and when he recovered, Otho was an
altered man. He forswore the comrades he had once courted, the revels
he had once led. The halls of Sternfels were desolate as those of
Liebenstein. The only companion Otho sought was Warbeck, and Warbeck
bore with him. They had no topic in common, for on one subject Warbeck
at least felt too deeply ever to trust himself to speak; yet did a
strange and secret sympathy re-unite them. They had at least a common
sorrow; often they were seen wandering together by the solitary banks of
the river, or amidst the woods, without apparently interchanging word or
sign. Otho died first, and still in the prime of youth; and Warbeck
was now left companionless. In vain the imperial court wooed him to its
pleasures; in vain the camp proffered him the oblivion of renown. Ah!
could he tear himself from a spot where morning and night he could see
afar, amidst the valley, the roof that sheltered Leoline, and on which
every copse, every turf, reminded him of former days? His solitary life,
his midnight vigils, strange scrolls about his chamber, obtained him
by degrees the repute of cultivating the darker arts; and shunning, he
became shunned by all. But still it was sweet to hear from time to time
of the increasing sanctity of her in whom he had treas