In the morning the porter, at her behest, withdrew bolt, bar, and chain, allowing exit into the fresh, cool air, and skirting the Castle, she arrived at a broad terrace which fronted it.  A fleecy mist extending from shore to shore concealed the waters of the Rhine, and partially obliterated the little village of Caub at the foot of the hill.  Where she stood the air was crystal clear, and she seemed to be looking out on a broad snow-field of purest white.  Beyond Caub its surface was pierced by the dozen sharp pinnacles of her future prison, looking like a bed of spikes, upon which one might imagine a giant martyr impaled by the verdict of a cruel Archbishop.

Gazing upon this nightmare Castle, whose tusks alone were revealed, the girl formulated the resolution but faintly suggested the night before.  On her release should ensue an abandonment of the world, and the adoption of a nun’s veil in the convent opposite Drachenfels, an island exchanged for an island; turmoil for peace.

At breakfast she met again the jovial Count Palatine, and her more sober guardian, who both complimented her on the results of her beauty rest, the one with great gallantry, the other with more reserve, as befitted a Churchman.  The Archbishop seemed old and haggard in the morning light, and it was not difficult to guess that no beauty sleep had soothed his pillow.  It wrung the girl’s heart to look at him, and again she accused herself for lack of all tact and discretion, wishing that her guardian took his disappointment more vengefully, setting her to some detested task that she might willingly perform.

The hospitable Count, eager that they should stop at least another night under his roof, pressed his invitation upon them, and the Archbishop gave a tacit consent.

“If the Countess is not too tired,” said Cologne, “I propose that she accompany me on a little journey I have in view farther up the river.  We will return here in the evening.”

“I should be delighted,” cried Hildegunde, “for all sense of fatigue has been swept away by a most restful night.”

The good-natured Count left them to their own devices, and shortly afterwards guardian and ward rode together down the steep declivity to the river.  The mist was already driven away, except a wisp here and there clinging to the gray surface of the water, trailing along as if drawn by the current, for the air was motionless, and there was promise of a sultry day.  They proceeded in silence until a bend in the Rhine shut Caub and its sinister water-prison out of sight, and then it was the girl who spoke.

“Guardian,” she said, “have I offended you beyond forgiveness?”

A gentle smile came to his lips as he gazed upon her with affection.

“You have not offended me at all, my dear,” he said, “but I am grieved at thwarting circumstance.”

“I have been thinking over circumstances too, and hold myself solely to blame for their baffling opposition.  I will submit without demur to whatever length of imprisonment may please, and, if possible, soften the Archbishop of Mayence.  After my release I shall ask your consent that I may forthwith join the Sisterhood at Nonnenwerth.  I wish to divide my wealth equally between yourself and the convent.”