"The piece was called the Freischütz," said Ilse; "the heroine was the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One. That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had already stretched out his hand."
Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action.
"It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to scold me."
Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she already knows.
"How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem."
"Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum about in the air like flies in summer."
"What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head.
"Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!"
"That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to conceal her confusion.
"I have found little nosegays on the bench in the park, with dear little poems, and the name of my home given by a letter and stars. See, first a large B, and then----"