Now just at midnight, every night, the lost heiress stood in the mouth of her cave, arrayed in white robes, and sang a little love ballad which her Crusader had made for her.  She judged that if he came home alive the superstitious peasants would tell him about the ghost that sang in the cave, and that as soon as they described the ballad he would know that none but he and she knew that song, therefore he would suspect that she was alive, and would come and find her.  As time went on, the people of the region became sorely distressed about the Specter of the Haunted Cave.  It was said that ill luck of one kind or another always overtook any one who had the misfortune to hear that song.  Eventually, every calamity that happened thereabouts was laid at the door of that music.  Consequently, no boatmen would consent to pass the cave at night; the peasants shunned the place, even in the daytime.

But the faithful girl sang on, night after night, month after month, and patiently waited; her reward must come at last.  Five years dragged by, and still, every night at midnight, the plaintive tones floated out over the silent land, while the distant boatmen and peasants thrust their fingers into their ears and shuddered out a prayer.

And now came the Crusader home, bronzed and battle-scarred, but bringing a great and splendid fame to lay at the feet of his bride.  The old lord of Hornberg received him as his son, and wanted him to stay by him and be the comfort and blessing of his age; but the tale of that young girl’s devotion to him and its pathetic consequences made a changed man of the knight.  He could not enjoy his well-earned rest.  He said his heart was broken, he would give the remnant of his life to high deeds in the cause of humanity, and so find a worthy death and a blessed reunion with the brave true heart whose love had more honored him than all his victories in war.

When the people heard this resolve of his, they came and told him there was a pitiless dragon in human disguise in the Haunted Cave, a dread creature which no knight had yet been bold enough to face, and begged him to rid the land of its desolating presence.  He said he would do it.  They told him about the song, and when he asked what song it was, they said the memory of it was gone, for nobody had been hardy enough to listen to it for the past four years and more.

Toward midnight the Crusader came floating down the river in a boat, with his trusty cross-bow in his hands.  He drifted silently through the dim reflections of the crags and trees, with his intent eyes fixed upon the low cliff which he was approaching.  As he drew nearer, he discerned the black mouth of the cave.  Now—­is that a white figure?  Yes.  The plaintive song begins to well forth and float away over meadow and river—­the cross-bow is slowly raised to position, a steady aim is taken, the bolt flies straight to the mark—­the figure sinks down, still singing, the knight takes the wool out of his ears, and recognizes the old ballad—­too late!  Ah, if he had only not put the wool in his ears!