signed in its dumb way for him to follow. He did
so accordingly, accompanied by his court; and the creature led them on
to the water's edge, to the shores of the lake, where it had its nest.
Arrived there, the Kaiser soon saw the cause of the serpent's seeking
him, for its nest, which was full of eggs, was occupied by a hideous
toad of monstrous proportions.

"Let the toad be flung into the fire," said the monarch solemnly, "and
let the serpent have possession of its nest restored to it."

This sentence was carried at once into execution. The toad was burnt,
and the serpent placed in possession. Charlemagne and his court then
returned to the palace.

Three days afterwards, as the Kaiser again sat at dinner, he was
surprised at the appearance of the serpent, which this time glided
into the hall unnoticed and unannounced.

"What does this mean?" thought the king.

The reptile approached the table, and raising itself on its tail,
dropped from its mouth, into an empty plate which stood beside the
monarch, a precious diamond. Then, again abasing itself before him,
the crawling creature glided out of the hall as it had entered, and
was speedily lost to view. This diamond the monarch caused to be set
in a costly chased ring of the richest gold; and he then presented the
trinket to his fair wife, the much-beloved Fastrada.

Now this stone had the virtue of attraction, and whoso received it
from another, so long as they wore it, received also the intensest
love of that individual. It was thus with Fastrada, for no sooner did
she place the ring on her finger than the attachment of Charlemagne,
great before, no longer knew any bounds. In fact his love was more
like madness than any sane passion. But though this talisman had full
power over love, it had no power over death; and the mighty monarch
was soon to experience that nothing may avert the fiat of destiny.

Charlemagne and his beloved bride returned to Germany, and, at
Ingelheim palace, Fastrada died. The Kaiser was inconsolable. He would
not listen to the voice of friendship, and he sorrowed in silence over
the dead body of his once beautiful bride. Even when decay had
commenced, when the remains, late so lovely, were now loathsome to
look on, he could not be induced to leave the corpse for a moment, or
to quit the chamber of death in which it lay. The court were all
astounded. They knew not what to make of the matter. At length
Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, approac