The church was splendidly illuminated; the old banners of the old knights glittered as they do at Drury Lane.  The organ set up of itself to play the “Bridesmaid’s Chorus.”  The choir-chairs were filled with people in black.

“Come, love,” said the pale lady.

“I don’t see the parson,” exclaimed Wolfgang, spite of himself rather alarmed.

“Oh, the parson! that’s the easiest thing in the world!  I say, bishop!” said the lady, stooping down.

Stooping down—­and to what?  Why, upon my word and honor, to a great brass plate on the floor, over which they were passing, and on which was engraven the figure of a bishop—­and a very ugly bishop, too—­with crosier and mitre, and lifted finger, on which sparkled the episcopal ring.  “Do, my dear lord, come and marry us,” said the lady, with a levity which shocked the feelings of her bridegroom.

The bishop got up; and directly he rose, a dean, who was sleeping under a large slate near him, came bowing and cringing up to him; while a canon of the cathedral (whose name was Schidnischmidt) began grinning and making fun at the pair.  The ceremony was begun, and . . . .

As the clock struck twelve, young Otto bounded up, and remarked the absence of his companion Wolfgang.  The idea he had had, that his friend disappeared in company with a white-robed female, struck him more and more.  “I will follow them,” said he; and, calling to the next on the watch (old Snozo, who was right unwilling to forego his sleep), he rushed away by the door through which he had seen Wolfgang and his temptress take their way.

That he did not find them was not his fault.  The castle was vast, the chamber dark.  There were a thousand doors, and what wonder that, after he had once lost sight of them, the intrepid Childe should not be able to follow in their steps?  As might be expected, he took the wrong door, and wandered for at least three hours about the dark enormous solitary castle, calling out Wolfgang’s name to the careless and indifferent echoes, knocking his young shins against the ruins scattered in the darkness, but still with a spirit entirely undaunted, and a firm resolution to aid his absent comrade.  Brave Otto! thy exertions were rewarded at last!

For he lighted at length upon the very apartment where Wolfgang had partaken of supper, and where the old couple who had been in the picture-frames, and turned out to be the lady’s father and mother, were now sitting at the table.

“Well, Bertha has got a husband at last,” said the lady.

“After waiting four hundred and fifty-three years for one, it was quite time,” said the gentleman. (He was dressed in powder and a pigtail, quite in the old fashion.)

“The husband is no great things,” continued the lady, taking snuff.  “A low fellow, my dear; a butcher’s son, I believe.  Did you see how the wretch ate at supper?  To think my daughter should have to marry an archer!”