o try to redeem the Holy
Sepulchre?--and so he resumed his journey to Palestine. Here an arduous
campaign awaited him. In the course of a fierce battle he was wounded
sorely, and while trying to escape from the field he was taken prisoner.
This was a terrible fate, a far worse fate than death, for the Saracens
usually sold their captives as slaves; and Sir Dietrich as he languished
in captivity, wondering whether he was destined to spend the rest of
his days serving the infidel in some menial capacity, vowed that if he
should ever regain his native Germany he would build there a chapel to
St. Peter. Nor did his piety go unrewarded, for shortly afterward a body
of his compatriots came to his aid, worsted his foes, and set him free.
A joyful day was this for the crusader, but it was not his pious vow
that he thought of first; he made for Argenfels, eager to see again the
bright eyes of the lady who had enchanted him. Day and night he rode,
and as he drew nearer to the castle his passion grew stronger within
him; but, alas! on reaching his destination his hopes were suddenly
dashed to the ground. War had meantime been waged in the neighbourhood
of Bertha's home; her father had been involved, his castle burnt to the
ground, and the two daughters had disappeared. Peradventure they had
perished, surmised the knight; but he swore he would leave nothing
undone which might lead to the restoration of his beloved. Making
inquiries far and near throughout the country, he heard at last from
an old shepherd that two ladies of gentle birth were sequestering
themselves in a disused hermitage near the summit of a mountain called
Stromberg. "Is it indeed they?" thought Sir Dietrich. He clambered up
the rocky steep leading to the hermitage and a wistful sound greeted
his ears, the sound of maidens' voices offering up vespers. "Ave Maria,
stella maris," they sang, and in the coolness of the evening the notes
vibrated with a new, strange loveliness, for the lover knew that he had
not climbed the Stromberg in vain. He returned, bringing Bertha with
him, and in due course she became his bride. Yet the fairest rose has
its thorns, and the happiness of the pair was not to be wholly undimmed
by clouds. For Bertha's sister, showing a curious perversity, expressed
a desire to remain in the abode which had sheltered her of late, and
nothing could induce her to alter this decision. Sir Dietrich pleaded
with her again and again, and of a sudden, while