From that time onward the German national spirit flourished, but the future of the Empire was uncertain till its fate was decided by the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71.  In the great hall of the Palace of Versailles in 1871 William I, King of Prussia, proclaimed, in the hour of victory, the restoration of the confederated German Empire.  The French forfeited their Rhenish provinces, and once more the Rhine was restored to Germany.

That the Thirty Years’ War did not fail to linger in the folk-memory is evidenced by the following gruesome legend of Oppenheim: 

The Battle of Skeletons

The smoke and terror of the great struggle had surged over Oppenheim.  A battle had been fought there, and the Swedes and Spaniards who had contested the field and had been slain lay buried in the old churchyard hard by the confines of the town.  At least many had been granted the right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his gaze.

But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer’s sun upon the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the town.  Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper, who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper.

“Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where the wine is good and the company jovial?”

“If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good as any in the place,” replied the maid.

“Good, my pretty,” cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to her face with a glance from his bright black eyes.  “Lead the way, and I will follow.  Or, better still, walk with me.”

By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends.  The girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young artist’s sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and cried:  “Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim.  There is no such place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit to the ruins of the old church to-night.  See, a pale and splendid moon has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could.”

“As you ask me so prettily, Fraeulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,” he replied.  “But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the foreground?”

“No, no,” cried the girl hastily.  “That would rob the scene of all its romance.”

“As you will,” said the artist.  “But this, I take it, is your father’s inn, and I am ready for supper.  Afterward—­well, we shall see!”