If ever he was annoyed with earthly trouble, she laid her moist hand upon his brow, and charmed the fret and fever quite away.
But one day--one fatal noontide--the young knight came rushing with hasty and irregular steps to the accustomed fountain.

He called the nymph; but--no doubt because there was something unusual and frightful in his tone she did not appear, nor answer him.

He flung himself down, and washed his hands and bathed his feverish brow in the cool, pure water.

And then there was a sound of woe; it might have been a woman's voice; it might have been only the sighing of the brook over the pebbles.

The water shrank away from the youth's hands, and left his brow as dry and feverish as before.
Donatello here came to a dead pause.
"Why did the water shrink from this unhappy knight ?" inquired the sculptor.
"Because he had tried to wash off a bloodstain!" said the young Count, in a horror-stricken whisper.