clear to the Knight what enemy he had encountered.  “He would scare me away from Bertalda,” said he aloud to himself; “he thinks he can subdue me by his absurd tricks, and make me leave the poor terrified maiden in his power, that he may wreak his vengeance upon her.  But that he never shall—­wretched goblin!  What power lies in a human breast when steeled by firm resolve, the contemptible juggler has yet to learn.”  And he felt the truth of his own words, and seemed to have nerved himself afresh by them.  He thought, too, that fortune now began to aid him, for before he had got back to his horse again, he distinctly heard the piteous voice of Bertalda as if near at hand, borne toward him on the winds as their howling mingled with the thunder.  Eagerly did he push on in that direction, and he found the trembling damsel was just attempting to climb the mountain’s side, in order, at any risk, to get out of these awful shades.

He met her affectionately and however proudly she might before have determined to hold out, she could not but rejoice at being rescued by her much-loved Huldbrand from the fearful solitude, and warmly invited to return to his cheerful home in the castle.  She accompanied him with scarcely a word of reluctance, but was so exhausted, that the Knight felt much relieved when they had reached the horse in safety; he hastened to loose him, and would have placed his tender charge upon him, and walked by her side to guide her carefully through the dangerous shades.  But Kuehleborn’s mad pranks had driven the horse quite wild.  Hardly could the Knight himself have sprung upon the terrified plunging creature’s back:  to place the trembling Bertalda upon him was quite impossible; so they made up their minds to walk home.  With his horse’s bridle over one arm, Huldbrand supported his half-fainting companion on the other.  Bertalda mustered what strength she could, in order the sooner to get beyond this dreaded valley, but fatigue weighed her down like lead, and every limb shook under her; partly from the recollection of all she had already suffered from Kuehleborn’s spite, and partly from terror at the continued crashing of the tempest through the mountain forests.

At length she slid down from her protector’s arm, and sinking on the moss, she said:  “Leave me to die here, noble Huldbrand; I reap the punishment of my folly, and must sink under this load of fatigue and anguish.”—­“Never, my precious friend, never will I forsake you,” cried Huldbrand, vainly striving to curb his raging steed, who was now beginning to start and plunge worse than ever:  the Knight contrived to keep him at some distance from the exhausted maiden, so as to save her the terror of seeing him near her.  But no sooner had he withdrawn himself and the wild animal a few steps, than she began to call him back in the most piteous manner, thinking he was indeed going to desert her in this horrible wilderness.  He was quite at a loss what to do:  gladly would he have let the horse gallop away in the darkness and expend his wild fury, but that he feared he might rush down upon the very spot where Bertalda lay.