The old fisherman had meanwhile folded his hands, and offered up a silent prayer that she might not be his daughter.

Undine, faint and pale as death, turned from the parents to Bertalda, from Bertalda to the parents.  She was suddenly cast dawn from all that heaven of happiness in which she had been dreaming, and plunged into an agony of terror and disappointment, which she had never known even in dreams.

“Have you, then, a soul?  Have you indeed a soul, Bertalda?” she cried again and again to her angry friend, as if with vehement effort she would arouse her from a sudden delirium or some distracting dream of night, and restore her to recollection.

But when Bertalda became every moment only more and more enraged—­ when the disappointed parents began to weep aloud—­and the company, with much warmth of dispute, were espousing opposite sides—­she begged, with such earnestness and dignity, for the liberty of speaking in this her husband’s hall, that all around her were in an instant hushed to silence.  She then advanced to the upper end of the table, where, both humbled and haughty, Bertalda had seated herself, and, while every eye was fastened upon her, spoke in the following manner:—­

“My friends, you appear dissatisfied and disturbed; and you are interrupting, with your strife, a festivity I had hoped would bring joy to you and to me.  Ah!  I knew nothing of your heartless ways of thinking; and never shall understand them:  I am not to blame for the mischief this disclosure has done.  Believe me, little as you may imagine this to be the case, it is wholly owing to yourselves.  One word more, therefore, is all I have to add; but this is one that must be spoken:—­I have uttered nothing but truth.  Of the certainty of the fact, I give you the strongest assurance.  No other proof can I or will I produce, but this I will affirm in the presence of God.  The person who gave me this information was the very same who decoyed the infant Bertalda into the water, and who, after thus taking her from her parents, placed her on the green grass of the meadow, where he knew the duke was to pass.”

“She is an enchantress!” cried Bertalda; “a witch, that has intercourse with evil spirits.  She acknowledges it herself.”

“Never!  I deny it!” replied Undine, while a whole heaven of innocence and truth beamed from her eyes.  “I am no witch; look upon me, and say if I am.”

“Then she utters both falsehood and folly,” cried Bertalda; “and she is unable to prove that I am the child of these low people.  My noble parents, I entreat you to take me from this company, and out of this city, where they do nothing but shame me.”

But the aged duke, a man of honourable feeling, remained unmoved; and his wife remarked: 

“We must thoroughly examine into this matter.  God forbid that we should move a step from this hall before we do so.”

Then the aged wife of the fisherman drew near, made a low obeisance to the duchess and said:  “Noble and pious lady, you have opened my heart.  Permit me to tell you, that if this evil-disposed maiden is my daughter, she has a mark like a violet between her shoulders, and another of the same kind on the instep of her left foot.  If she will only consent to go out of the hall with me—­”