At the close of the evening service, the lady of Stramen was seen to exchange a few words with her venerable pastor, but she did not enter the cell.
The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beneath the horizon--but Gilbert slept upon his couch; the moon had lit her feebler torch, and walked silently beneath the stars--yet not until midnight did Gilbert awake.
All was profoundly still.

The dim light of the taper at his bedside revealed only the motionless figure of the sacristan, and the outline of a crucifix hanging against the wall.

His eyes involuntarily closed, and in a moment he stood before his father, in the oaken halls of Hers--his retainers were around him--the horses pranced merrily--the bugle sounded--"On to the chase!" was the cry.

He opened his eyes--the crucifix became more distinct.
He knelt before a prince, and arose a knight--a broidered kerchief streamed from his polished casque--the herald, in trumpet tones, proclaimed his prowess--the troubador embalmed his deeds in immortal verse--the smiles of high-born damsels were lavished upon him--the page clasped his sword at the mention of his name.

He opened his eyes--the crucifix, and the sacristan! A form of beauty was before him--at first, haughty and disdainful, but gradually assuming a look of interest and pity--it bent over him, and poured a balm into his wound, with a prayer for its efficacy--but the figure lifted its finger with a menacing air, and pointed to a snake, hissing from its hair--a mist settled around him, and the apparition was gone.