"A froward bee hath stung my hand;
Mother Earth will heal the smart.
But when I lie beneath the turf,
Say, Will she heal my broken heart?"

Then I saw that Ann turned pale as she said somewhat stiffly: "There are
other remedies for you against even the worst!" and he replied: "But
yours, Ann, work the best cure."

By this time she was herself again, and answered as though she cared not:
"I learnt them from a skilled master.--But in what tongue is your song,
Junker Schopper, and who taught you that?"

To which he hastily answered: "A swarthy wench of gipsy race."

And she, taking courage, said: "One peradventure whom you erewhile met in
the forest here?" Herdegen shook his curly head, and his eye flashed
lovingly as he spoke: "No, Ann, and by all the Saints it is not so! It
was of a gipsy mother that I learnt it; she sang it to a man in despair
--in despair for your sake, Ann--in the forest of Fontainebleau."

Whereupon Ann shook her head and strove to speak lightly as she said
"Despair! Are you not like the man in the fable, who deemed that he was
burnt whereas he had thrust another into the fire? The cap fits,
methinks, Junker Schopper."

He replied sadly, and there was true grief in his voice: "Is a hard jest
all you have to give me now?" quoth he, "Nay, then, tell me plainly,
Ann, if there is no hope for me more."