But as it was a long time ago that the events of our story occurred, ’tis probable that the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was greeted upon his path by this fascinating peasantry; though we know not how he accepted their welcome.  He continued his ride across the flat green country until he came to Rolandseck, whence he could command the Island of Nonnenwerth (that lies in the Rhine opposite that place), and all who went to it or passed from it.

Over the entrance of a little cavern in one of the rocks hanging above the Rhine-stream at Rolandseck, and covered with odoriferous cactuses and silvery magnolias, the traveller of the present day may perceive a rude broken image of a saint:  that image represented the venerable Saint Buffo of Bonn, the patron of the Margrave; and Sir Ludwig, kneeling on the greensward, and reciting a censer, an ave, and a couple of acolytes before it, felt encouraged to think that the deed he meditated was about to be performed under the very eyes of his friend’s sanctified patron.  His devotion done (and the knight of those days was as pious as he was brave), Sir Ludwig, the gallant Hombourger, exclaimed with a loud voice:—­

“Ho! hermit! holy hermit, art thou in thy cell?”

“Who calls the poor servant of heaven and Saint Buffo?” exclaimed a voice from the cavern; and presently, from beneath the wreaths of geranium and magnolia, appeared an intensely venerable, ancient, and majestic head—­’twas that, we need not say, of Saint Buffo’s solitary.  A silver beard hanging to his knees gave his person an appearance of great respectability; his body was robed in simple brown serge, and girt with a knotted cord:  his ancient feet were only defended from the prickles and stones by the rudest sandals, and his bald and polished head was bare.

“Holy hermit,” said the knight, in a grave voice, “make ready thy ministry, for there is some one about to die.”

“Where, son?”

“Here, father.”

“Is he here, now?”

“Perhaps,” said the stout warrior, crossing himself; “but not so if right prevail.”  At this moment he caught sight of a ferry-boat putting off from Nonnenwerth, with a knight on board.  Ludwig knew at once, by the sinople reversed and the truncated gules on his surcoat, that it was Sir Gottfried of Godesberg.

“Be ready, father,” said the good knight, pointing towards the advancing boat; and waving his hand by way of respect to the reverend hermit, without a further word, he vaulted into his saddle, and rode back for a few score of paces; when he wheeled round, and remained steady.  His great lance and pennon rose in the air.  His armor glistened in the sun; the chest and head of his battle-horse were similarly covered with steel.  As Sir Gottfried, likewise armed and mounted (for his horse had been left at the ferry hard by), advanced up the road, he almost started at the figure before him—­a glistening tower of steel.