But the warriors who flit across the lore of Rhineland were not all so unfortunate, and one who fared better was Sir Dietrich of Schwarzenbeck.  Marching by the Rhine on his way to join a band of crusaders, this Dietrich chanced to pass a few days at the castle of Argenfels, whose owner was the father of two daughters.  The younger of the pair, Bertha by name, soon fell in love with the guest, while he, too, was deeply impressed by her charm; but silken dalliance was not for him at present—­for was he not under a vow to try to redeem the Holy Sepulchre?—­and so he resumed his journey to Palestine.  Here an arduous campaign awaited him.  In the course of a fierce battle he was wounded sorely, and while trying to escape from the field he was taken prisoner.  This was a terrible fate, a far worse fate than death, for the Saracens usually sold their captives as slaves; and Sir Dietrich as he languished in captivity, wondering whether he was destined to spend the rest of his days serving the infidel in some menial capacity, vowed that if he should ever regain his native Germany he would build there a chapel to St. Peter.  Nor did his piety go unrewarded, for shortly afterward a body of his compatriots came to his aid, worsted his foes, and set him free.  A joyful day was this for the crusader, but it was not his pious vow that he thought of first; he made for Argenfels, eager to see again the bright eyes of the lady who had enchanted him.  Day and night he rode, and as he drew nearer to the castle his passion grew stronger within him; but, alas! on reaching his destination his hopes were suddenly dashed to the ground.  War had meantime been waged in the neighbourhood of Bertha’s home; her father had been involved, his castle burnt to the ground, and the two daughters had disappeared.  Peradventure they had perished, surmised the knight; but he swore he would leave nothing undone which might lead to the restoration of his beloved.  Making inquiries far and near throughout the country, he heard at last from an old shepherd that two ladies of gentle birth were sequestering themselves in a disused hermitage near the summit of a mountain called Stromberg.  “Is it indeed they?” thought Sir Dietrich.  He clambered up the rocky steep leading to the hermitage and a wistful sound greeted his ears, the sound of maidens’ voices offering up vespers.  “Ave Maria, stella maris,” they sang, and in the coolness of the evening the notes vibrated with a new, strange loveliness, for the lover knew that he had not climbed the Stromberg in vain.  He returned, bringing Bertha with him, and in due course she became his bride.  Yet the fairest rose has its thorns, and the happiness of the pair was not to be wholly undimmed by clouds.  For Bertha’s sister, showing a curious perversity, expressed a desire to remain in the abode which had sheltered her of late, and nothing could induce her to alter this decision.  Sir Dietrich pleaded with her again and again, and of a sudden, while thus engaged, he thought of the