She caressed him with humble delight as she heard the expressions of love so long withheld, and then at length she said, “My dearest friend, since you are so gentle and kind today, may I venture to ask a favor of you?  See now, it is just the same with you as it is with summer.  In the height of its glory summer puts on the flaming and thundering crown of mighty storms and assumes the air of a king over the earth.  You too sometimes let your fury rise, and your eyes flash, and your voice is angry, and this becomes you well, though I in my folly may sometimes weep at it.  But never, I pray you, behave thus toward me on the water, or even when we are near it.  You see, my relatives would then acquire a right over me.  They would unrelentingly tear me from you in their rage because they would imagine that one of their race was injured, and I should be compelled all my life to dwell below in the crystal palaces, and should never be permitted to ascend to you again; or they would send me up to you—­and that, oh God, would be infinitely worse.  No, no, my beloved friend, do not let it come to that, however dear poor Undine be to you.”  He promised solemnly to do as she desired, and husband and wife returned from the apartment, full of happiness and affection.

At that moment Bertalda appeared with some workmen to whom she had already given orders, and said in the sullen tone which she had assumed of late, “I suppose the secret conference is at an end, and now the stone may be removed.  Go out, workmen, and attend to it.”  But the knight, angry at her impertinence, directed in short and very decisive words that the stone should be left; he reproved Bertalda, too, for her violence toward his wife.  Whereupon the workmen withdrew, smiling with secret satisfaction; while Bertalda, pale with rage, hurried away to her rooms.

The hour for the evening repast arrived, and Bertalda was waited for in vain.  They sent after her, but the domestic found her apartments empty, and only brought back with him a sealed letter addressed to the knight.  He opened it with alarm, and read:  “I feel with shame that I am only a poor fisher-girl.  I will expiate my fault in having forgotten this for a moment, by returning to the miserable cottage of my parents.  Farewell to you and your beautiful wife.”

Undine was heartily distressed.  She earnestly entreated Huldbrand to hasten after their friend and bring her back again.  Alas! she had no need to urge him.  His affection for Bertalda burst forth again with vehemence.  He hurried round the castle, inquiring if any one had seen which way the beautiful fugitive had gone.  He could learn nothing of her and was already on his horse in the castle-yard, resolved to take at a venture the road by which he had brought Bertalda hither.  Just then a page appeared, who assured him that he had met the lady on the path to the Black Valley.  Like an arrow the knight sprang through the gate-way in the direction indicated, without hearing Undine’s voice of agony as she called to him from the window:  “To the Black Valley!  Oh, not there!  Huldbrand, don’t go there! or, for Heaven’s sake, take me with you!” But when she perceived that all her calling was in vain, she ordered her white palfrey to be saddled immediately and rode after the knight without allowing any servant to accompany her.