case in former days, when the noble bard wrote his
elegant poems--in the happy ancient days! when maidens were as yet
generous, and men kindly! Now the degenerate peasantry of the district
are much more inclined to ask than to give, and their blue eyes seem to
have disappeared with their generosity.

But as it was a long time ago that the events of our story occurred,
'tis probable that the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was greeted
upon his path by this fascinating peasantry; though we know not how
he accepted their welcome. He continued his ride across the flat green
country until he came to Rolandseck, whence he could command the Island
of Nonnenwerth (that lies in the Rhine opposite that place), and all who
went to it or passed from it.

Over the entrance of a little cavern in one of the rocks hanging above
the Rhine-stream at Rolandseck, and covered with odoriferous cactuses
and silvery magnolias, the traveller of the present day may perceive a
rude broken image of a saint: that image represented the venerable Saint
Buffo of Bonn, the patron of the Margrave; and Sir Ludwig, kneeling on
the greensward, and reciting a censer, an ave, and a couple of acolytes
before it, felt encouraged to think that the deed he meditated was about
to be performed under the very eyes of his friend's sanctified patron.
His devotion done (and the knight of those days was as pious as he
was brave), Sir Ludwig, the gallant Hombourger, exclaimed with a loud
voice:--

"Ho! hermit! holy hermit, art thou in thy cell?"

"Who calls the poor servant of heaven and Saint Buffo?" exclaimed
a voice from the cavern; and presently, from beneath the wreaths of
geranium and magnolia, appeared an intensely venerable, ancient, and
majestic head--'twas that, we need not say, of Saint Buffo's solitary. A
silver beard hanging to his knees gave his person an appearance of great
respectability; his body was robed in simple brown serge, and girt with
a knotted cord: his ancient feet were only defended from the prickles
and stones by the rudest sandals, and his bald and polished head was
bare.

"Holy hermit," said the knight, in a grave voice, "make ready thy
ministry, for there is some one about to die."

"Where, son?"

"Here, father."

"Is he here, now?"

"Perhaps," said the stout warrior, crossing himself; "but not so if
right prevail." At this moment he caught sight of a ferry-boat putting
off from Nonnenwerth, with a knight on board. Ludwig knew