and thereby won the name of Frauenlob.

"This then," said Flemming, "is the grave, not of Praise-God
Bare-bones, but of Praise-the-Ladies Meissen, who wrote songs
`somewhat of lust, and somewhat of love.' But where sleeps the dust
of his rival and foe, sweet Master Bartholomew Rainbow?"

He meant this for an aside; but the turkey-cock picked it up and
answered;

"I do not know. He did not belong to this parish."

It was already night, when Flemming crossedthe Roman bridge over
the Nahe, and entered the town of Bingen. He stopped at the White
Horse; and, before going to bed, looked out into the dim starlight
from his window towards the Rhine, and his heart leaped up to behold
the bold outline of the neighbouring hills crested with Gothic
ruins;--which in the morning proved to be only a high, slated roof
with fantastic chimneys.

The morning was bright and frosty; and the river tinged with gay
colors from the rising sun. A soft, thin vapor floated in the air.
In the sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost, like silver stars; and
through a long avenue of trees, whose dripping branches bent and
scattered pearls before him, Paul Flemming journeyed on in
triumph.

I will not prolong this journey, for I am weary and way-worn, and
would fain be at Heidelberg with my readers, and my hero. It was
already night when he reached the Manheim gate, and drove down the