Returning upon their steps, they passed down the valley and through the long street to the tumble-down old Lutheran church.  A flight of stone steps leads from the street to the green terrace or platform on which the church stands, and which, in ancient times, was the churchyard, or as the Germans more devoutly say, God’s-acre; where generations are scattered like seeds, and that which is sown in corruption shall be raised hereafter in incorruption.  On the steps stood an old man,—­a very old man,—­holding a little girl by the hand.  He took off his greasy cap as they passed, and wished them good day.  His teeth were gone; he could hardly articulate a syllable.  The Baron asked him how old the church was.  Hegave no answer; but when the question was repeated, came close up to them, and taking off his cap again, turned his ear attentively, and said;

“I am hard of hearing.”

“Poor old man,” said Flemming; “He is as much a ruin as the church we are entering.  It will not be long before he, too, shall be sown as seed in this God’s-acre!”

The little girl ran into a house close at hand, and brought out the great key.  The church door swung open, and, descending a few steps, they passed through a low-roofed passage into the church.  All was in ruin.  The gravestones in the pavement were started from their places; the vaults beneath yawned; the roof above was falling piecemeal; there were rents in the old tower; and mysterious passages, and side doors with crazy flights of wooden steps, leading down into the churchyard.  Amid all this ruin, one thing only stood erect; it was a statue of a knight in armour, standing in a niche under the pulpit.

“Who is this?” said Flemming to the old sexton; “who is this, that stands here so solemnly in marble, and seems to be keeping guard over the dead men below?”

“I do not know,” replied the old man; “but I have heard my grandfather say it was the statue of a great warrior!”

“There is history for you!” exclaimed the Baron.  “There is fame!  To have a statue of marble, and yet have your name forgotten by the sexton of your parish, who can remember only, that he once heard his grandfather say, that you were a great warrior!”

Flemming made no reply, for he was thinking of the days, when from that old pulpit, some bold reformer thundered down the first tidings of a new doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand old hymns of Martin Luther.

When he communicated his thoughts to the Baron, the only answer he received was;

“After all, what is the use of so much preaching?  Do you think the fishes, that heard the sermon of St. Anthony, were any better than thosewho did not?  I commend to your favorable notice the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded by Abraham a Santa Clara.  You will find it in your favorite Wonder-Horn.”

Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach; and the evening at the Allee-Saal was quite solitary; for as yet no company had arrived to fill its chambers, or sit under the trees before the door.  The next morning even Flemming and the Baron were gone; for the German’s heart was beating with strong desire to embrace his sister; and the heart of his friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he were not too much alone.