n years. The six
who rode after them, singing to lutes and harps, were the six great
masters of song, whom the Landgrave--heart and soul devoted to the
glorious singer's craft--has assembled at his Court. They are now
engaged in the chase; but when that is over, they will meet in a
beautiful meadow in the heart of the forest, and hold a singing
contest. Thither let us repair, that we may be present when the hunt is
over."

"'Wherefore they went along; while the distant rocks and the woods
re-echoed the notes of the horns, the cries of the hounds, and the
shouts of the hunters. All turned out as Professor Wagenseil had
desired. Scarcely had they come to the gold-green glittering meadow,
when the Landgrave, the Countess, and the six masters came slowly up
from the distance.

"'"Good friend!" said Wagenseil, "I shall now point out to you each of
the masters, and call him by his name. You see the one who looks about
him so joyfully, and, holding his chestnut horse well in hand, comes
caracoling up so bravely? The Landgrave nods to him--he gives a happy
smile--that is the cheerful, vigorous Walther of the Vogelweid. He with
the broad shoulders and the strong, curly beard, with knightly blazon
on his shield--riding quietly forward on the piebald--is Reinhard of
Zweckhstein. Now, notice him there riding away from us into the woods
on a small-sized dapple grey. He gazes thoughtfully before him, and
smiles as if fair forms and pictures were rising before him out of the
ground; that is the great Professor Heinrich Schreiber. He is probably
far away in spirit, and thinks not of the meadow or of the singers'
contest. For see how he pushes his way down the narrow woodland path,
while the branches above him strike his head. There goes Johannes
Bitterolff after him, that fine-looking man on the sorrel, with the
short reddish beard. He calls to the professor, who wakes up from his
reverie, and they come riding back together. But what is this wild
commotion there amongst the trees; Can storm squalls be passing along
down so low in the thickets? This is indeed a wild rider, spurring his
horse till he bounds and rears, foaming and fretting. See the pale
handsome lad; how his eyes flame, and the muscles of his face are drawn
with pain--as if some invisible being were sitting behind him and
torturing him--it is Heinrich of Ofterdingen. What can have changed him
thus? He used to ride quietly on, joining with beautiful tones in the
songs o