at embrace! They parted; and
then the Margrave, coming forward, coldly signified to his lady that she
was to retire to a convent for life, and gave orders that the boy should
be sent too, to take the vows at a monastery.

Both sentences had been executed. Otto, in a boat, and guarded by a
company of his father's men-at-arms, was on the river going towards
Cologne, to the monastery of Saint Buffo there. The Lady Theodora, under
the guard of Sir Gottfried and an attendant, were on their way to
the convent of Nonnenwerth, which many of our readers have seen--the
beautiful Green Island Convent, laved by the bright waters of the Rhine!

"What road did Gottfried take?" asked the Knight of Hombourg, grinding
his teeth.

"You cannot overtake him," said the Margrave. "My good Gottfried, he is
my only comfort now: he is my kinsman, and shall be my heir. He will be
back anon."

"Will he so?" thought Sir Ludwig. "I will ask him a few questions ere he
return." And springing from his couch, he began forthwith to put on
his usual morning dress of complete armor; and, after a hasty ablution,
donned, not his cap of maintenance, but his helmet of battle. He rang
the bell violently.

"A cup of coffee, straight," said he, to the servitor who answered the
summons; "bid the cook pack me a sausage and bread in paper, and the
groom saddle Streithengst; we have far to ride."

The various orders were obeyed. The horse was brought; the refreshments
disposed of; the clattering steps of the departing steed were heard in
the court-yard; but the Margrave took no notice of his friend, and sat,
plunged in silent grief, quite motionless by the empty bedside.

CHAPTER V.

THE TRAITOR'S DOOM.

The Hombourger led his horse down the winding path which conducts from
the hill and castle of Godesberg into the beautiful green plain below.
Who has not seen that lovely plain, and who that has seen it has not
loved it? A thousand sunny vineyards and cornfields stretch around
in peaceful luxuriance; the mighty Rhine floats by it in silver
magnificence, and on the opposite bank rise the seven mountains robed in
majestic purple, the monarchs of the royal scene.

A pleasing poet, Lord Byron, in describing this very scene, has
mentioned that "peasant girls, with dark blue eyes, and hands that offer
cake and wine," are perpetually crowding round the traveller in this
delicious district, and proffering to him their rustic presents. This
was no doubt the