pleased your eyes? Woe is me! if time or circumstances should destroy these fleeting charms; if old age bends my slender shape and crooks my back; if my roses and lilies fade, my fine skin wrinkles and dries; if my deceitful figure, in which I now stand before you, really belonged to me, what would become of your plighted faith?” Knight Conrad wondered at this discourse, which seemed too wise and reflecting for a kitchen-maid. “Know,” was his answer, “beauty commands a man’s love, but virtue knows how to keep fast the soft bands of love.”—“Well,” answered she, “I go to fulfil your conditions, prepare your heart to decide my fate.”
The Knight still wavered between hope and fear of a new deception; he rang for the housekeeper, and commanded her to “escort the maiden to her chamber, that she may clothe herself neatly; remain at the door till she comes out—I await you in the reception-room.” Dame Gertrude took her prisoner with strict care, not knowing what her lord’s command might mean. In going up she said, “Hast thou clothes to adorn thyself? why hast thou concealed them from me? If thou wantest any, follow me to my chamber, I will lend thee as many as thou needest.” Hereupon she described her old-fashioned wardrobe (in which she had dressed herself for half a century) piece by piece, with eager remembrance of former times. Matilda had little need of any, she only desired a small piece of soap, and a handful of bran, took a washing-basin full of water, went into her chamber and fastened the bolt, while Dame Gertrude stood outside the door with great anxiety, expecting what would happen. The knight, full of expectation as to the issue of his love adventure, forsook his couch, clothed himself in elegant attire, and went into his state room, pacing the room with quick, uneven strides. Just as the clock on the Augsburg town-hall, and eighteen other clocks, told the hour of noon, a train of a silken robe rustled through the antechamber, and Miss Matilda entered, with hesitation and dignity, adorned as a bride, and beautiful as the Goddess of Love when she returned to Paphos from the council of the Gods on Mount Olympus. With the rapture of a delighted lover, the knight Conrad cried, “Goddess or mortal, whoever you may be, behold me here at your feet, ready to renew the vow that I have made you, if you will accept my heart and hand.” The maiden modestly raised the knight: “Softly, noble knight,” said she, “do not be in a hurry with your vow; you see me here in my proper form, though still unknown to you: a smooth face has betrayed many men. The ring is still in your hands.” Immediately the knight took it from his finger; the maiden relinquished her hand to the charming knight, and he placed the ring upon her finger. “You are now my chosen,” said she; “I can no longer conceal myself; I am the daughter of Wackerman Uhlfinger, the stout old knight, whose unhappy fate is,
