pearance
of the heir to the crown of Brabant, changing him by magic art into
a swan; had cast the guilt of his disappearance upon Elsa, and
married the man who upon Elsa's condemnation would have become
Duke. Through no neglect of her own was Ortrud's brow still bare
of the crown. At the cry of execration that greets her revelation,
she faces them all, drawn up to her proud height, and announces:
"Thus do they revenge themselves, the gods from whom you turned
your worship!"

But Lohengrin had not been too far, nor too engrossed in going,
to hear her words. The Knight of the Grail has sunk on his knees
and joined his hands in prayer. All eyes are upon him, his eyes
earnestly heavenward. For a long moment all is in motionless suspense.
A white dove flies into sight, and hovers over the boat. With the
gladness of one whose prayer is heard, Lohengrin rises and unfastens
the chain from the swan; this vanishes from sight, leaving in its
place a beautiful boy in shining garments, whom Lohengrin lifts to
the bank. "Behold the Duke of Brabant! Your leader he shall be!"
At sight of him, Ortrud utters a cry of terror, Elsa, drawn for
a moment out of her stupor, a cry of joy. She catches the brother
in her arms--But looking up, after the first transport of gladness,
and seeing the place empty where her husband had stood, his boat gone
from sight, forgetting all else, she sends after him a despairing
cry, "My husband! My husband!"

In the distance, at a bend of the river, the boat reappears for
a moment, drawn now by the dove of the Grail. The Silver Knight
is seen standing in it, leaning on his shield, his head mournfully
bowed. Sounds of sorrow break from all lips. The sight pierces
like a sword through the heart of the forsaken bride. She sinks
to the ground _entseelt_--exanimate.

Such figures as play their part in this story, the Silver Knight,
with his swan and faery skiff, the fair falsely-accused damsel, the
wicked sorceress, could hardly be painted in flagrant life-colours.
The music of Lohengrin brings to mind pictures one seems to remember
on vellum margins of old books of legend, where against a golden
background shine forth vivid yet delicate shapes, in tints brilliant
yet soft as distance, the green of April, the rose of day-break,
the blue of remote horizons.

There is an older story on these same lines, the story of Cupid
and Psyche, an allegory, we are told, of Love and the Soul. And an
allegory is meant to