The gentlemen in the hall were more than ready to agree to our bidding; yet none but I could guess what made Ann’s lip to quiver from time to time, while her gay spirit charmed the young men who bore us company through the woods to the beekeeper’s garden.

I and Elsa cut the flowers helped by Jorg Loffelholz, while Ann sat under a shady lime-tree hard by an arbor of honeysuckle, and showed the others, who lay on the grass about her; how to wind a garland.  Each one was ready to be taught by lips so sweet, and in guiding of fingers and words of praise or blame, there was right merry laughing and chatter and pastime.

Junker Henning lay at her feet, and near him my Hans’ brother Paulus, and young Master Holzschuher.  The Knight von Eberstein had fetched him a stool out from the beekeeper’s house, and twisted and tied with great zeal; the Italian Conte, Fagio di Puppi, struck the mandoline, which he called “the lady of his heart” from whom he never parted even on the longest journey.

When Elsa and I had flowers enough, we sat down with the others, and it was pleasant there to rest in the shade of the lime-tree, whose leaves fluttered in a soft air, while bees and butterflies hovered above the flowers in the warm sunshine.  The birds sang no more; they had finished nesting long ago; but we, with our young hearts overfull of love, were in the right mind for song, and when Puppi had charmed us with a sweet Italian lay, and I had decked his lute with a rose as a guerdon, my lord of Eberstein took example from him, and they then besought Ann and me to do our part; but Junker Henning was the more eager.  Whereupon Ann smiled on him so graciously that I was in pain for him, and she signed to me, and, I taking the lower part as was our wont, we gave Prince Wizlav’s “Song to Dame Love.”  It rang out right loud and clear from our throats over the gentlemen’s heads as they sat at our feet, and through the garden close: 

          “Earth is set free and flowers
          In all the meads are springing,
          The balmy noontide hours
          Are sweet with odors rare;
          The hills for joy are leaping. 
          The happy birds are singing,
          And now, while winds are sleeping,
          Soar through the sunny air.

          Now hearts begin to kindle
          And burn with love’s sweet anguish
          As tapers blaze and dwindle. 
          Love, our lady! lend thine ear! 
          Would’st thou but spoil our pleasure? 
          Ah, leave us not to languish! 
          Who vows to thee his treasure,
          Haughty lady, must beware.”