iet and peaceful in the court.
This was the first time she had ventured out since her accident. She
took a glass to draw water from the well-house, supported by the
pillars taken from Charlemagne's palace in the Palatinate near
Ingelheim. Whilst lowering the bucket she gazed at the beloved images
at her ease. No one was there to disturb her at her early task. The
glass filled with the pure water of the well sparkled in her hand.
Clear shone the morning-sun on the Ruprecht building, and to see the
images better the maiden was forced to approach closer. She protected
her eyes against the light with her hand and looked intently at the
well-known figures. Gently and kindly seemed the angels to smile back
on her. The younger one to the left might stand for the grave Paolo,
the older one to the right the joyous artist. Right! "He is the right
one," the words of the witch kept dinning in her ears. And did not the
compasses in the middle refer to Felice's art? Not the breviary, but
the implement of the Maestro is surrounded by the roses of love. "But
they are both clad as choir-boys." The thought distracted her. The
angels' heads seemed to float, to nod to her, to greet her. Dazzled by
the light it seemed to her confused eyes as if the wreath were coming
away. Suddenly a full blown rose fell at her feet. Surprised she looked
around whether she could see anyone. She picked up the flower. It was
the same kind of deep-red rose as was sculptured on the wreath round
the angels. With a feeling akin to superstition she looked up to see
whether the beautiful rose had not fallen out of the wreath encircling
the lovely children? But none was missing. The windows on the whole of
that side were closed, with the exception of a single one, and that
belonged to Felice's room. Smilingly she placed the flower in her
glass, and hurried back as fast as her lame foot would permit, for just
at that moment a servant maid inclined to question her about her early
appearance in the court came out of the house. She did not however feel
attracted towards the "red-haired Frances," who in admiration for the
rose pressed too familiarly at her side.

Lydia felt mentally and morally perplexed and confused. She could not
bring herself to see in her wondrous dream and the extraordinary
morning salutation received on her first appearance abroad a mere
accident. Thus she sat, dreamingly pondering over these events near her
seat at the window, when her father ente