They mourned for him as for one dead, and long did this
grief lie over all their songs like a gloomy veil, depriving them of
all their splendour and tone, till at length the image of the lost one
passed further and further away into the dimness of distance.

"'The spring had come again, and with it all the joy and happiness of
renewed life. On a pleasant place in the castle gardens, closed in by
beautiful flowers, the masters were assembled to greet the young leaves
and the buds and blossoms with festive songs. The Landgrave, with
Mathilda and other ladies, had taken their seats in a circle round
them, and Wolfframb of Eschinbach was about to begin a song, when a
young man, with a lute in his hand, came forward from amongst the
trees. With glad surprise they all recognized in him the long missing
Heinrich of Ofterdingen. The masters went to meet him with greetings of
the heartiest kindliness; but, without taking much notice of them, he
approached the Landgrave, to whom, and then to the Countess Mathilda,
he made a lowly reverence. He said he was completely cured of the
sickness which had been upon him, and begged, should there be any
reasons precluding him from being readmitted to the circle of the
masters, to be at least allowed to sing his compositions as well as the
others. But the Landgrave said that, though he had been away from among
them for a time, he was by no means withdrawn from the circle of the
masters, and he did not know why he should imagine that that would be
the case. He embraced him, and himself pointed out to him his former
place, between Walther of the Vogelweid and Wolfframb of Eschinbach. It
was soon apparent that Heinrich's looks and bearing were completely
changed. Instead of hanging his head as formerly, and creeping about
with eyes fixed on the ground, he now walked with a bold firm step,
lifting his head on high. His face was as pale as ever, but his glance
was firm and penetrating, instead of wavering and uncertain. On his
brow, instead of the old deep melancholy, sat a proud, gloomy gravity;
and a strange muscular play about his mouth and cheek at times
expressed a most uncanny kind of scorn. He deigned no word to the
masters, but sat down silent in his place. Whilst the others were
singing, he looked at the sky, moved about on his seat, counted on his
fingers, yawned--in short, gave every indication of tedium and
impatience. Wolfframb of Eschinbach sung in praise of the Landgrave,
and then