Then she wept more and more, like a sorely injured,
innocent child. And at length she said faintly, "Farewell, my dearest;
farewell! They shall not lay a finger on thee; only be true to me,
that I may still guard thee from them. But I, alas! I must be gone;
all this bright morning of life is over. Woe, woe is me! what hast
thou done? woe, woe!" And she slipped out of the boat and passed away.
Whether she went down into the river, or flowed away with it, none
could tell; it was like both and yet like neither. She soon mingled
with the waters of the Danube, and nothing was to be heard but the
sobbing whispers of the stream as it washed against the boat, seeming
to say distinctly, "Woe, woe! Oh be true to me! woe, woe!"
Huldbrand lay flat in the boat, drowned in tears, till a deep swoon
came to the unhappy man's relief, and steeped him in oblivion.
XVI.--OF WHAT BEFELL HULDBRAND AFTERWARDS
Shall we say, Alas, or thank God, that our grief is so often
transient? I speak of such grief as has its source in the wellsprings
of life itself, and seems so identified with our lost friend, as
almost to fill up the void he has left; and his hallowed image seems
fixed within the sanctuary of our soul, until the signal of our
release comes, and sets us free to join him! In truth, a good man will
not suffer this sanctuary to be disturbed; yet even with him, it is
not the first, the all-engrossing sorrow which abides. New objects
will intermingle, and we are compelled to draw from our grief itself a
fresh proof of the perishableness of earthly things: alas, then, that
our grief is transient!
So it was with the Lord of Ringstetten; whether for his weal or woe,
the sequel of this story will show us.
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