The branches, moistened by the cold drops of the evening dew, struck against his forehead and cheeks; distant thunder muttered from the further side of the mountains; and everything put on so strange an appearance, that he began to feel a dread of the white figure, which now lay at a short distance from him upon the ground.
Still, he could see distinctly that it was a female, either asleep or in a swoon, and dressed in long white garments such as Bertalda had worn the past day.

Approaching quite near to her, he made a rustling with the branches and a ringing with his sword; but she did not move.
"Bertalda!" he cried, at first low, then louder and louder; yet she heard him not.

At last, when he uttered the dear name with an energy yet more powerful, a hollow echo from the mountain-summits around the valley returned the deadened sound, "Bertalda!" Still the sleeper continued insensible.

He stooped down; but the duskiness of the valley, and the obscurity of twilight would not allow him to distinguish her features.
While, with painful uncertainty, he was bending over her, a flash of lightning suddenly shot across the valley.

By this stream of light he saw a frightfully distorted visage close to his own, and a hoarse voice reached his ear: "You enamoured swain, give me a kiss!" Huldbrand sprang upon his feet with a cry of horror, and the hideous figure rose with him.
"Go home!" it cried, with a deep murmur: "the fiends are abroad.