“The stone shall remain unmoved; all remains, and ever shall remain, just as you choose to have it, my sweetest Undine!”

At these long-withheld expressions of tenderness, she returned his caresses with lowly delight, and at length said: 

“My dearest husband, since you are so kind and indulgent to-day, may I venture to ask a favour of you?  See now, it is with you as with summer.  Even amid its highest splendour, summer puts on the flaming and thundering crown of glorious tempests, in which it strongly resembles a king and god on earth.  You, too, are sometimes terrible in your rebukes; your eyes flash lightning, while thunder resounds in your voice; and although this may be quite becoming to you, I in my folly cannot but sometimes weep at it.  But never, I entreat you, behave thus toward me on a river, or even when we are near any water.  For if you should, my relations would acquire a right over me.  They would inexorably tear me from you in their fury, because they would conceive that one of their race was injured; and I should be compelled, as long as I lived, to dwell below in the crystal palaces, and never dare to ascend to you again; or should they send me up to you!—­O God! that would be far worse still.  No, no, my beloved husband; let it not come to that, if your poor Undine is dear to you.”

He solemnly promised to do as she desired, and, inexpressibly happy and full of affection, the married pair returned from the apartment.  At this very moment Bertalda came with some work-people whom she had meanwhile ordered to attend her, and said with a fretful air, which she had assumed of late: 

“Well, now the secret consultation is at an end, the stone may be removed.  Go out, workmen, and see to it.”

The knight, however, highly resenting her impertinence, said, in brief and very decisive terms:  “The stone remains where it is!” He reproved Bertalda also for the vehemence that she had shown towards his wife.  Whereupon the workmen, smiling with secret satisfaction, withdrew; while Bertalda, pale with rage, hurried away to her room.

When the hour of supper came, Bertalda was waited for in vain.  They sent for her; but the domestic found her apartments empty, and brought back with him only a sealed letter, addressed to the knight.  He opened it in alarm, and read: 

“I feel with shame that I am only the daughter of a poor fisherman.  That I for one moment forgot this, I will make expiation in the miserable hut of my parents.  Farewell to you and your beautiful wife!”

Undine was troubled at heart.  With eagerness she entreated Huldbrand to hasten after their friend, who had flown, and bring her back with him.  Alas! she had no occasion to urge him.  His passion for Bertalda again burst forth with vehemence.  He hurried round the castle, inquiring whether any one had seen which way the fair fugitive had gone.  He could gain no information; and was already in the court on his horse, determining to take at a venture the road by which he had conducted Bertalda to the castle, when there appeared a page, who assured him that he had met the lady on the path to the Black Valley.  Swift as an arrow, the knight sprang through the gate in the direction pointed out, without hearing Undine’s voice of agony, as she cried after him from the window: