Days and weeks passed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased to love because he began to adore.  And with this adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, and themaiden, in her day-dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts might whisper his name!  And was it indeed so?  Did any voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts whisper his name?—­We shall soon learn.

They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen.  She was sketching the ruins.  The birds were singing one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the world.  So motionless was the bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass.  The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old ruin above them.

“What a pity it is,” said the lady, as she stopped to rest her weary fingers; “what a pity it is, that there is no old tradition connected with this ruin.”

“I will make you one, if you wish,” said Flemming.

“Can you make old traditions?”

“O yes; I made three the other day for the Rhine, and one very old one for the Black Forest.  A lady with dishevelled hair; a robber with a horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaring pines.”

“Delightful!  Do make one for me.”

“With the greatest pleasure.  Where will you have the scene?  Here, or in the Black Forest?”

“In the Black Forest, by all means?  Begin.”

“First promise not to interrupt me.  If you snap the golden threads of thought, they will float away on the air like gossamer threads, and I shall never be able to recover them.”

“I promise.”

“Listen, then, to the Tradition of ‘The Fountain of Oblivion.’ "

“Begin.”

Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at the lady’s feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the linden-trees overhead.

“Gentle Lady!  Dost thou remember the linden-trees of Bulach, those tall and stately trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves and rustic benches underneath their overhanging eaves!  A leafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first I told my love to thee, thou cold and stately Hermione!  A little peasant girl stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep yet mild,—­none else was with us in that hour, save God and that peasant child!”

“Why, it is in rhyme!”

“No, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination.  You promised not to interrupt me, and you have already snapped asunder the gossamer threads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun from a poet’s brain.”