Meanwhile he had already penetrated
quite a ways into the valley, and might soon hope to overtake the
maiden if he were on the right track, but the fear that this might not
be the case made his heart beat with anxiety. Where would the tender
Bertalda tarry through the stormy night, which was so fearful in the
valley, should he fail to find her? At length he saw something white
gleaming through the branches on the slope of the mountain. He
thought he recognized Bertalda's dress, and turned his course in that
direction. But his horse refused to go forward; it reared impatiently;
and its master, unwilling to lose a moment, and seeing moreover that
the copse was impassable on horseback, dismounted; then, fastening his
snorting steed to an elm-tree, he worked his way cautiously through
the bushes. The branches sprinkled his forehead and cheeks with the
cold drops of the evening dew; a distant roll of thunder was heard
murmuring from the other side of the mountains; everything looked so
strange that he began to feel a dread of the white figure which now
lay only a short distance from him on the ground. Still he could
plainly see that it was a woman, either asleep or in a swoon, and that
she was attired in long white garments such as Bertalda had worn
on that day. He stepped close up to her, made a rustling with the
branches, and let his sword clatter, but she moved not. "Bertalda!"
he exclaimed, at first in a low voice, and then louder and louder--but
still she heard not.
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