audible to the terror-stricken guard; but from time to time a hollow sound reached them, like the murmur of distant thunder.  At length the visitor emerged from the chamber, and returned to her waiting coach.  Duty, rather than inclination, obliged the gallant captain to hand her into her carriage, and this task he performed with praiseworthy politeness, though his heart sank within him at the touch of her icy fingers, and his tongue refused to return the adieu her pale lips uttered.  With a flourish of whips the chariot set off.  Sparks flew from the hoofs of the horses, smoke and flame burst from their nostrils, and such was their speed that in a moment they were lost to sight.  The captain, sorely puzzled by the events of the night, returned to his men, who were huddled together at the end of the hall furthest from the death-chamber.

On the morrow, ere the guard had had time to inform the Duke of these strange happenings, news reached the palace that the first lady of the bedchamber had died on the previous night at twelve o’clock.  It was supposed that sorrow for her mistress had caused her death.

Eppstein

Of the castle of Eppstein, whose ruins still remain in a valley of the Taunus Mountains, north of Biberich, the following curious story is told.

Sir Eppo, a brave and chivalrous knight—­and a wealthy one to boot, as were his successors of Eppstein for many generations—­was one day hunting in the forest, when he became separated from his attendants and lost his way.  In the heat of the chase his sense of direction had failed him, and though he sounded his bugle loud and long there was no reply.

Tired out at length with wandering hither and thither, he rested himself in a pleasant glade, and was surprised and charmed to hear a woman’s voice singing a mournful melody in soft, clear tones.  It was a sheer delight to Sir Eppo to listen to a voice of such exquisite purity, yet admiration was not the only feeling it roused in his breast.  There was a note of sadness and appeal in the song, and what were knighthood worth if it heeded not the voice of fair lady in distress?  Sir Eppo sprang to his feet, forgetting his own plight in the ardour of chivalry, and set off in the direction from which the voice seemed to come.  The way was difficult, and he had to cut a passage with his sword through the dense thicket that separated him from the singer.  At length, guided by the melancholy notes, he arrived before a grotto, in which he beheld a maiden of surpassing beauty, but of sorrowful mien.  When she saw the handsome knight gazing at her with mingled surprise and admiration she ceased her song and implored his aid.  A cruel giant, she said, had seized her and brought her thither.  At the moment he was asleep, but he had tied her to a rock so that she might not escape.

Her beauty and grace, her childlike innocence, her piteous plight, moved Sir Eppo strangely.  First pity, then a stronger emotion dawned in his breast.  He severed her bonds with a stroke of his keen falchion.