A few days afterwards Sintram stood in the parlour of the convent, and waited with a beating heart for his mother to appear.

He had seen her for the last time when, a slumbering child, he had been awakened by her warm farewell kisses, and then had fallen asleep again, to wonder in his dreams what his mother had wanted with him, and to seek her in vain the next morning in the castle and in the garden.

The chaplain was now at his side, rejoicing in the chastened rapture of the knight, whose fierce spirit had been softened, on whose cheeks a light reflection of that solemn morning cloud yet lingered.
The inner doors opened.

In her white veil, stately and noble, the Lady Verena came forward, and with a heavenly smile she beckoned her son to approach the grating.

There could be no thought here of any passionate outbreak, whether of sorrow or of joy.
"In whose sweet presence sorrow dares not lower Nor expectation rise Too high for earth."-- Christian Year (Footnote in 1901 text.) The holy peace which had its abode within these walls would have found its way to a heart less tried and less purified than that which beat in Sintram's bosom.