“Gracious Buffo!” “Celestial Bugo!” here said the hermit and the Knight of Hombourg simultaneously, clasping their hands.

“Yes, his uncle; but with the bar-sinister in his scutcheon.  Hence he could never be acknowledged by the family; hence, too, the Lady Theodora’s spotless purity (though the young people had been brought up together) could never be brought to own the relationship.”

“May I repeat your confession?” asked the hermit.

“With the greatest pleasure in life:  carry my confession to the Margrave, and pray him give me pardon.  Were there—­a notary-public present,” slowly gasped the knight, the film of dissolution glazing over his eyes, “I would ask—­you—­two—­gentlemen to witness it.  I would gladly—­sign the deposition—­that is, if I could wr-wr-wr-wr-ite!” A faint shuddering smile—­a quiver, a gasp, a gurgle—­the blood gushed from his mouth in black volumes . . . .

“He will never sin more,” said the hermit, solemnly.

“May heaven assoilzie him!” said Sir Ludwig.  “Hermit, he was a gallant knight.  He died with harness on his back and with truth on his lips:  Ludwig of Hombourg would ask no other death. . . . .”

An hour afterwards the principal servants at the Castle of Godesberg were rather surprised to see the noble Lord Louis trot into the court-yard of the castle, with a companion on the crupper of his saddle.  ’Twas the venerable hermit of Rolandseck, who, for the sake of greater celerity, had adopted this undignified conveyance, and whose appearance and little dumpy legs might well create hilarity among the “pampered menials” who are always found lounging about the houses of the great.  He skipped off the saddle with considerable lightness however; and Sir Ludwig, taking the reverend man by the arm and frowning the jeering servitors into awe, bade one of them lead him to the presence of his Highness the Margrave.

“What has chanced?” said the inquisitive servitor.  “The riderless horse of Sir Gottfried was seen to gallop by the outer wall anon.  The Margrave’s Grace has never quitted your lordship’s chamber, and sits as one distraught.”

“Hold thy prate, knave, and lead us on!” And so saying, the Knight and his Reverence moved into the well-known apartment, where, according to the servitor’s description, the wretched Margrave sat like a stone.

Ludwig took one of the kind broken-hearted man’s hands, the hermit seized the other, and began (but on account of his great age, with a prolixity which we shall not endeavor to imitate) to narrate the events which we have already described.  Let the dear reader fancy, while his Reverence speaks, the glazed eyes of the Margrave gradually lighting up with attention; the flush of joy which mantles in his countenance—­the start—­the throb—­the almost delirious outburst of hysteric exultation with which, when the whole truth was made known, he clasped the two messengers of glad tidings to his breast, with an energy that almost choked the aged recluse!  “Ride, ride this instant to the Margravine—­say I have wronged her, that it is all right, that she may come back—­that I forgive her—­that I apologize if you will”—­and a secretary forthwith despatched a note to that effect, which was carried off by a fleet messenger.