if you cannot start
off at once I will give you a little book which you shall study
diligently. It is a book written by Master Klingsohr, and it contains
not only the rules of the true singer's craft, but also one or two
admirable compositions of his own."

"'With this the stranger had produced a little book in a blood-red
cover, which glimmered and shone in the moonlight. He handed this book
to Heinrich, and, as soon as he had done so, he stepped back and
vanished amongst the underwood.

"'Heinrich fell into a profound sleep. When he awoke the sun was high in
the heavens, and, had it not been that the book was lying on his
breast, he would have looked upon his adventure with the stranger as
merely a vivid dream.

"'OF THE LADY MATHILDA. EVENTS ON THE WARTBURG.

"'Doubtless, dear reader, you have at some time or other found yourself
in some circle composed of fair ladies and talented men, which might be
likened to a fair garland of many-tinted flowers, vieing in colour and
perfume. But, like the exquisite tones of a music breathing over the
whole, and awaking joy and rapture in every breast, it was the special
charm of some one lady in particular, which, outshining the rest of the
circle, was the special determining cause of the perfection of harmony
pervading the whole. The other ladies seemed more lovely and
attractive, seen in the light of her beauty, joining in the music of
her voice. It made the men's hearts grow wider, and enabled them to
give play to the enthusiasm and inspiration which is shy to come to the
light at ordinary times, so that it streamed forth in words or music,
or in such form as the nature of the circumstances might suggest. And,
however this "queen" of the circle might endeavour, in the kindness and
simplicity of her thoughtful goodness and consideration for all, to
apportion her favour to each in equal measure, one still could see that
her glance singled out one youth in particular standing in silence near
her, whose eyes, moist with tears of soft emotion, betrayed the
blissfulness of the passion burning in his breast. Many might envy, but
none could hate this fortunate being; nay, those who were his friends
rather loved him the better for the sake of the love he felt.

"Thus it happened that, in the fair garland of ladies and poets at the
Court of Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, the Countess Mathilda, widow
of Count Cuno of Falkenstein (dead at an advanced age), was the fair