iers, waiting till the sound of the Marshal's words should die
away, he suddenly stood at his side, in the centre of the arena. He
made a lowly reverence to the Landgrave, and said, in a firm voice, he
was ready to contend, according to the decree, with the master
appointed as his adversary, and to submit to the arbiters' award.

"The Marshal then passed along in front of the masters, holding a
silver vase, out of which each of them had to draw a lot. When
Wolfframb of Eschinbach unfolded that which he had drawn, he found it
marked with the sign indicating that he was the master chosen for the
contest. A deadly terror well-nigh unmanned him at the thought of
having thus to enter upon a life-and-death contest with his friend. But
soon he felt that it was of Heaven's mercy that the lot had fallen on
him. If vanquished he would gladly die; but if victor, far sooner would
he go to the death than suffer Heinrich of Ofterdingen to perish by the
sword of the headsman. With a gladsome heart and a serene and pleasant
countenance, he took his appointed place. When he had seated himself
opposite to his friend, a strange feeling, akin to fear, took
possession of him. For he was certainly looking upon the face of his
friend; but out of the deadly pale countenance uncanny eyes were
gleaming at him, and he could not help remembering Nasias.

"'Heinrich of Ofterdingen began his songs, and Wolfframb was greatly
startled when he recognised them to be the same which Nasias had sung
on the night when he came to him. But he collected himself with all his
might, and replied to his antagonist with a magnificent song, in such
sort that the acclamations of the thousand voices of the audience rang
through the air, and the people at once accorded him the victory. But
the Landgrave ordered that Heinrich of Ofterdingen should sing again,
and Heinrich went on with songs which, in the marvellousness of their
"manners," were so pregnant with the joy of the animalism of life, that
the listeners sank into a species of gentle intoxication, as if under
the influence of "the drowsy syrups of the East." Even Wolfframb felt
himself drawn as into a foreign province of existence. He could think
no more of his own songs, nor even of himself.

"At this moment a sound arose at the gate leading to the arena, and the
crowd parted and made way. An electric stroke seemed to penetrate
Wolfframb; he awoke from his reverie and looked in the direction of
this interrupt