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it sink down into her bosom, as if it were an
anchor she was letting down into her heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark
eyes were turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walking with the
souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, and Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was
thinking of that Nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his Dialogues, that,
having greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden, without making the sign of
the cross, she found herself soon after possessed with a devil.
The probability, however, is, that she was looking up to the ruined
castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began her story, and told
Flemming how, a great, great many years ago, an old man lived in the
Liebenstein with his two sons; and how both the young men loved the
Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their father's care; and how the elder
brother went away in despair, and the younger was betrothed to the
Lady Geraldine; and how they were as happy as Aschenputtel and the
Prince. And then the holy Saint Bernard came and carried away all the
young men to the war, just as Napoleon did afterwards; and the young
lord went to the Holy Land, and the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower
and wept, and waited for her lover's return, while the old father built
the Sternenfels for them to live in when they were married. And when
it was finished, the old man died; and the elder brother came back and
lived in the Liebenstein, and took care of the gentle Lady. Ere long
there came news from the Holy Land, that the war was over; and the
heart of the gentle Lady beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless
lover was coming back with a Greek wife,--the wicked man! and then
she went into a convent and became a holy nun. So the young lord of
Sternenfels came home, and lived in his castle in great splendor with
the Greek woman, who was a wicked woman, and did what she ought

not to do. But the elder brother was angry for the wrong done the gentle
Lady, and challenged the lord of Sternenfels to single combat. And,
while they were fighting with their great swords in the valley of
Bornhofen behind the castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the
Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns alldressed in white, and
made the brothers friends again, and told them she was the bride of
Heaven, and happier in her convent than she could have been in the
Liebenstein or the Sternenfels. And when the brothers returned, they
found that the false Greek wife had gone away with another knight. So
they lived together in peace, and were never married. And when they
died--"
"Lisbeth! Lisbeth!" cried a sharp voice from the shore, "Lisbeth! Where
are you taking the gentleman?"
This recalled the poor girl to her senses; and she saw how fast they
were floating down stream. For in telling the story she had forgotten
every thing else, and the swift current had swept them down to the tall
walnut trees of Kamp. They landed in front of the Capucin Monastery.
Lisbeth led the way through the little village, and turning to the right
pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which leads to the Liebenstein,
and even offered to go up. But Flemming patted her cheek and shook
his head. He went up the valley alone.



CHAPTER V.
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE.

The man in the play, who wished for `some forty pounds of lovely beef,
placed in a Mediterranean sea of brewis,' might have seen his ample
desires almost realized at the table d'hôte of the Rheinischen Hof, in
Mayence, where Flemming dined that day. At the head of the table sat a
gentleman, with a smooth, broad forehead, and large, intelligent eyes.
He was from Baireuth in Franconia; and talked about poetry and Jean
Paul, to a pale, romantic-looking lady on his right. There was music all

dinner-time, at the other end of the hall; a harp and a horn and a voice;
so that a great part of the fat gentleman's conversation with the pale
lady was lost to Flemming, who sat opposite to her, and could look
right into her large, melancholy eyes. But what heheard, so much
interested him,--indeed, the very name of the beloved Jean Paul would
have been enough for this,--that he ventured to join in the conversation,
and asked the German if he had known the poet personally.
"Yes; I knew him well," replied the stranger. "I am a native of Baireuth,
where he passed the best years of his life. In my mind the man and the
author are closely united.