t many had been granted the
right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in
which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a
stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could
not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his
gaze.

But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer's sun upon
the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too
intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the
town. Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had
been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper,
who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying
prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper.

"Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where
the wine is good and the company jovial?"

"If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good
as any in the place," replied the maid.

"Good, my pretty," cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to
her face with a glance from his bright black eyes. "Lead the way, and I
will follow. Or, better still, walk with me."

By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends. The
girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young
artist's sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that
had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and
cried: "Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim. There is no such
place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit
to the ruins of the old church to-night. See, a pale and splendid moon
has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could."

"As you ask me so prettily, Fraeulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,"
he replied. "But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the
foreground?"

"No, no," cried the girl hastily. "That would rob the scene of all its
romance."

"As you will," said the artist. "But this, I take it, is your father's
inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterward--well, we shall see!"

Supper over, the painter sat for some time over his pipe and his wine,
and then, gathering together his sketching impedimenta, quitted the inn
and took his way toward the ruins of Oppenheim's ancient abbey. It was
a calm, windless night, and the silver moon sailed high in the heavens.
Not a s