_she_ will be in the country."

This was a phase of domestic bliss so new to us that we were fain to
consider it for a moment. Various other attempts we made at gaining
information, with equally questionable success. Our Dutch acquaintance,
though disposed to conversation, avoided the topic of his own country.
Still he sought our society persistently, asking at dinner that his
plate might be laid at the same table. Our vanity was considerably
flattered, until he chanced to remark that he embraced every opportunity
of conversing with English and American travellers, _it did so improve
his English_. From that time we found him tiresome. Think of being used
as an exercise-book!

It is here at Rolandseck that the romance of the Rhine, as well as its
world-renowned scenery, commences. Across the river is the
Drachenfels--the crag upon which the remains of a castle may still be
seen, where, "in the most ancient time," dwelt Hildegund, a maiden
beautiful as those of all stories, and beloved by Roland, a nephew of
Charlemagne. When he went away to the wars, she waited and watched at
home--as other maidens have done; but alas! instead of her lover, came
after a time only the news of his death. Then Hildegund laid aside her
gay attire and happy heart, with her hopes, and leaving her father's
castle, came down to bury her young life in the nunnery upon the island
at its foot. But the rumor was false; and in time Roland returned, only
to find himself too late, for Hildegund was bound by vows which could
not be broken. Then, upon the rock called now Rolandseck, the unhappy
lover built a castle opposite the Drachenfels and overlooking the
Island of Nonnenworth. Here he could watch the nuns as they walked in
the convent garden, and perhaps among them distinguish the form of
Hildegund.

On our way down from the arch, which, with a few crumbling stones is all
that remains now of Roland's castle, we passed through one of the
vineyards for which the banks of this river are so noted. Do you imagine
them to be picturesque? They are almost ugly. The vines are planted in
regular order and pruned closely. They are not suffered to grow above
three feet in height, and each one is fastened to a stout stake until
the wood itself becomes self-supporting.

We spent a quiet Sabbath at Rolandseck. There was no church, no church
service at either of the hotels. We rested and wrote letters, sitting in
the grape arbors of the garden; only a low hedge