after year went by; still the warrior was absent, and betimes his friends and relations began to lose all hope of ever seeing him again, imagining that he must have fallen at the hands of the infidel.  Yet this suspicion was never actually confirmed, and the elder brother, far from taking the advantage which the strange situation offered, continued to eschew paying any addresses to his brother’s intended bride, and invariably treated her simply as a beloved sister.  Sometimes, no doubt, it occurred to him that he might win her yet; but of a sudden his horizon was changed totally, and changed in a most unexpected fashion.  The rover came back!  And lo! it was not merely a tale of war that he brought with him, for it transpired that while abroad he had proved false to his vows and taken to himself a wife, a damsel of Grecian birth who was even now in his train.  The knight of Liebenstein was bitterly incensed on hearing the news, and sent his brother a fierce challenge to meet him in single combat; but scarcely had they met and drawn swords ere the injured lady intervened.  She reminded the young men of their sacred bond of fraternity; she implored them to desist from the crime of bloodshed.  Then, having averted this, she experienced a great longing to renounce all earthly things, and took the veil in a neighbouring convent, thus shattering for ever the rekindled hopes of her elder suitor.  But he, the hero of the drama, was not the only sufferer, for his brother was not to go unpunished for his perfidy.  A strange tale went forth, a scandalous tale to the effect that the Grecian damsel was unfaithful to her spouse.  Sterrenberg began to rue his ill-timed marriage, and ultimately was forced to banish his wife altogether.  And so, each in his wind-swept castle—­for their father was now dead—­the two knights lived on, brooding often on the curious events of which their lives had been composed.  The elder never married, and the younger had no inclination to take that step a second time.

     They never entered court or town,
     Nor looked on woman’s face;
     But childless to the grave went down,
     The last of all their race. 
     And still upon the mountain fair
     Are seen two castles grey,
     That, like their lords, together there
     Sink slowly to decay.

     The gust that shakes the tottering stone
     On one burg’s battlement,
     Upon the other’s rampart lone
     Hath equal fury spent. 
     And when through Sternberg’s shattered wall
     The misty moonbeams shine,
     Upon the crumbling walls they fall
     Of dreary Liebenstein.

This legend is recounted here to illustrate the poetry of the Rhine.  A variant of it is given on p. 171.

Argenfels