ke the murmur of distant thunder. At length the visitor emerged
from the chamber, and returned to her waiting coach. Duty, rather than
inclination, obliged the gallant captain to hand her into her carriage,
and this task he performed with praiseworthy politeness, though his
heart sank within him at the touch of her icy fingers, and his tongue
refused to return the adieu her pale lips uttered. With a flourish of
whips the chariot set off. Sparks flew from the hoofs of the horses,
smoke and flame burst from their nostrils, and such was their speed that
in a moment they were lost to sight. The captain, sorely puzzled by the
events of the night, returned to his men, who were huddled together at
the end of the hall furthest from the death-chamber.

On the morrow, ere the guard had had time to inform the Duke of these
strange happenings, news reached the palace that the first lady of the
bedchamber had died on the previous night at twelve o'clock. It was
supposed that sorrow for her mistress had caused her death.

Eppstein

Of the castle of Eppstein, whose ruins still remain in a valley of the
Taunus Mountains, north of Biberich, the following curious story is
told.

Sir Eppo, a brave and chivalrous knight--and a wealthy one to boot,
as were his successors of Eppstein for many generations--was one day
hunting in the forest, when he became separated from his attendants and
lost his way. In the heat of the chase his sense of direction had failed
him, and though he sounded his bugle loud and long there was no reply.

Tired out at length with wandering hither and thither, he rested himself
in a pleasant glade, and was surprised and charmed to hear a woman's
voice singing a mournful melody in soft, clear tones. It was a sheer
delight to Sir Eppo to listen to a voice of such exquisite purity, yet
admiration was not the only feeling it roused in his breast. There was
a note of sadness and appeal in the song, and what were knighthood worth
if it heeded not the voice of fair lady in distress? Sir Eppo sprang to
his feet, forgetting his own plight in the ardour of chivalry, and set
off in the direction from which the voice seemed to come. The way was
difficult, and he had to cut a passage with his sword through the dense
thicket that separated him from the singer. At length, guided by the
melancholy notes, he arrived before a grotto, in which he beheld a
maiden of surpassing beauty, but of sorrowful mien. When she saw the
handsome