“I, wings?” asked Will, whose whole attention was again directed to his bait.  “How ridiculous!  Who would wish for impossibilities?”

“I only wish I had them,” cried Hartmut excitedly.  “I would I were one of the falcons from whom we take our name.  Then I would mount higher and always higher in the blue sky towards the sun, and never come back again.”

“I believe you’re crazy,” answered his listener good-naturedly.  “Well, I wont catch anything, if I sit here all day, for the fish wont bite.  I must move to another place.”

With that he gathered up his fishing tackle and crossed to the other side of the pond, while Hartmut threw himself on the ground again.

It was one of those autumn days which during the midday hours recall thoughts of early spring.  The sunshine was so golden, the air so mild, the woods so fresh and odorous.  Upon the glistening little lake danced thousands of shining sparks, and the long grass whispered softly and mysteriously to itself whenever a breath of wind passed over it.

Hartmut lay stretched out motionless on the grass as if listening to the secrets it told to the autumnal wind.  The wild passion and excitement which flashed from his eyes when he spoke of the bird of prey had all vanished.  Now the eyes which looked into the heavens above were sad and dreamy, and there rested in them an expression of ardent longing.

A light step, almost unheard on the soft ground, approached, and the low bushes rustled as if against a silk garment.  Then they parted and a woman’s figure appeared and stood looking intently at the young dreamer.

“Hartmut!”

The boy started and sprang up instantly.  He knew neither the voice nor the apparition which stood before him, but saw it was a lady, and he made her one of his courtly bows.

“Pardon, Madame—­”

A slender, trembling hand was laid quickly and restrainingly on his arm.

“Be quiet, not so loud; your companion might hear us, and I want to speak to you, and to you alone, Hartmut.”

She stepped back again into the thicket and motioned him to follow.  Hartmut hesitated a moment.  How came this heavily-veiled and richly-attired stranger into the lonely wood, and why did she speak so familiarly to him whom she had never seen before?  But the mysteriousness of her behavior beginning to charm him, he followed.

She stood now in the shadow of the low trees, where she could not be seen from the lake, and slowly threw back her veil.  She was not very young, a woman of more than thirty, but her face with its great burning eyes, possessed an indefinable witchery, and a certain charm lay in her voice, which, though she talked in whispers, had a soft, deep tone, and an odd intonation, as though the German which she spoke so fluently was not her mother tongue.

“Hartmut, look at me.  Do you really not know me any more?  Does no memory of your childhood come back to you, to tell you who I am?”