painful sighs which escaped his
labouring breast assumed the form of words, of musical notes, and he
sang this song:--

My star of hope,
Where hast thou gone?
Alas! thy glory rises up--
Thy glory sweet, far from me now--
And pours its light on others down.
Ye rustling evening breezes, rouse you,
Blow on my breast,
Awake all joy that kills,
Awake all pain that brings to death,
So that my sore and bleeding heart,
Steeped to the core in bitter tears,
May break in yearning comfortless.
Why whisper ye, ye darksome trees?
So softly and like friends together?
And why, O golden skirts of sky.
Look ye so kindly down on me?
Show me my grave;
For that is now my haven of hope,
Where I shall calmly, softly sleep.

And as it often happens that the very greatest trouble, if only it can
find vent in tears and words, softens down into a gentle melancholy,
mild and painless, and that often a faint glimmer of hope appears then
in the soul, so it was with Frederick; when he had sung this song he
felt wonderfully strengthened and comforted The evening breezes and the
darksome trees that he had called upon in his song rustled and
whispered words of consolation; and like the sweet dreams of distant
glory or of distant happiness, golden streaks of light worked their way
up across the dusky sky. Frederick rose to his feet, and went down the
hill into the village. He almost fancied that Reinhold was walking
beside him as he did on the day they first found each other; and all
the words which Reinhold had spoken again recurred to his mind. And as
his thoughts dwelt upon Reinhold's story about the contest between the
two painters who were friends, then the scales fell from his eyes.
There was no doubt about it; Reinhold must have seen Rose before and
loved her. It was only his love for her which had brought him to
Nuremberg to Master Martin's, and by the contest between the two
painters he meant simply and solely their own--Reinhold's and
Frederick's--rival wooing of beautiful Rose. The words that Reinhold
had then spoken rang again in his ears,--"Honest contention for the
same prize, without any malicious reserve, ought to unite true friends
and knit their hearts still closer together, instead of setting them at