“Well, Maitre Bernard,” cried Christian, “it is broad daylight; had we not better start?”

Then, speaking to Fuldrade, who seemed buried in thought—­

“Fuldrade, this old gentleman cannot drink our kirschwasser, yet I cannot offer him water.  Have you anything better?”

Fuldrade took up a milk-pail, and, with an intelligent glance at Christian, went out.

“Wait a moment,” she said; “I shall be here directly.”

She rapidly tripped over the wet meadow; the drops of rain, collecting in the large leaves, poured about her feet in little crystal streams.  At her approach to the cave the finest cows arose up as if to greet their young mistress.  She patted them all, and, having seated herself, began to milk one, a fine white cow, which, standing motionless, with eyes half-closed, seemed grateful for the preference.

When her pail was full Fuldrade made haste back, and, presenting it to Bernard, said, smiling—­

“Drink as much as you like; that is the way we drink milk warm from the cow in the country.”

Which was done at once, the good man thanking her many times, and praising the excellence of this frothy milk, flavoured, as it were, with the wild aromatic plants of the Schneeberg, Fuldrade seemed pleased with his eulogiums, and Christian, who had slipped on his blouse, standing behind them, staff in hand, waited for the end of these compliments before he cried—­

“Now, master, en route!  We have plenty of water now to turn the mill for six weeks without stopping, and I must be back by nine o’clock.”

And they started, following the gravelly road under the hill.

“Adieu!” said Maitre Bernard to the young girl, who gently bowed her head without speaking; “farewell! and may God make you always happy!”

The next day, about six in the evening, Bernard Hertzog, having returned to Saverne, was seated before his writing-desk, and describing in his chapter upon the antiquities of the Dagsberg, his discovery of the Merovingian arms in the woodman’s hut in the Nideck.  Then he went on to prove that the name of Tribocci, or Triboques, was derived from the German drei buechen—­that is, three beeches.  As a convincing proof, he referred to the three trees and the three toads of Nideck, which latter our kings have converted into three fleurs-de-lis.

All the antiquaries of Alsace envied him this admirable and interesting discovery.  On both banks of the Rhine he was known as doctor, doctissimus, eruditus Bernardus, under which triumphal titles he dilated with honest pride, while he tried to bear his honours with becoming gravity.

And now, my dear friends, if you are curious to know what became of old Irmengarde, refer to the second volume of Bernard Hertzog’s Archeological Annals, where under date July 16,1836, you will find the following statement:—­

“The old teller of legends, Irmengarde, surnamed ’The Soul of the Ruins,’ died last night in the hut of the woodman Christian.  Wonderful to relate, in the very same hour, almost the same minute, the principal tower of Nideck fell, and was washed away by the waterfall below.