A knight, Hugo von Wolfsberg, became attached to the quiet, melancholy Eckbert, and seemed to cherish a genuine fondness for him.  Eckbert was strangely surprised; he met the knight’s friendly advances more quickly than the other expected.  They were now frequently together, the stranger did Eckbert all sorts of favors, scarcely ever did either of them ride out without the other, they met each other at all the parties—­in short, they seemed to be inseparable.

Eckbert was, nevertheless, happy only for short moments at a time, for he felt quite sure that Hugo loved him only by mistake—­he did not know him, nor his history, and he felt the same impulse again to unfold his soul to him in order to ascertain for sure how staunch a friend Hugo was.  Then again doubts and the fear of being detested restrained him.  There were many hours in which he felt so convinced of his own unworthiness as to believe that no person, who knew him at all intimately, could hold him worthy of esteem.  But he could not resist the impulse; in the course of a long walk he revealed his entire history to his friend, and asked him if he could possibly love a murderer.  Hugo was touched and tried to comfort him.  Eckbert followed him back to the city with a lighter heart.

However, it seemed to be his damnation that his suspicions should awaken just at the time when he grew confidential; for they had no more than entered the hall when the glow of the many lights revealed an expression in his friend’s features which he did not like.  He thought he detected a malicious smile, and it seemed to him that he, Hugo, said very little to him, that he talked a great deal with the other people present, and seemed to pay absolutely no attention to him.  There was an old knight in the company who had always shown himself as Eckbert’s rival, and had often inquired in a peculiar way about his riches and his wife.  Hugo now approached this man, and they talked together a long time secretly, while every now and then they glanced toward Eckbert.  He, Eckbert, saw in this a confirmation of his suspicions; he believed that he had been betrayed, and a terrible rage overcame him.  As he continued to stare in that direction, he suddenly saw Walther’s head, all his features, and his entire figure, so familiar to him.  Still looking, he became convinced that it was nobody but Walther himself who was talking with the old man.  His terror was indescribable; completely beside himself, he rushed out, left the city that night, and, after losing his way many times, returned to his castle.

Like a restless spirit he hurried from room to room.  No thought could he hold fast; the pictures in his mind grew more and more terrible, and he did not sleep a wink.  The idea often occurred to him that he was crazy and that all these notions were merely the product of his own imagination.  Then again he remembered Walther’s features, and it was all more puzzling to him than ever.  He resolved to go on a journey in order to compose his thoughts; he had long since given up the idea of a friend and the wish for a companion.