As she finished speaking she turned, to find at her feet the penitent knight. The vision had passed leaving him bowed down under the burden of his sin and unworthiness. He kissed the hem of her garment while tears flowed fast and unchecked from his eyes. For his life he cared not a straw. But that he should have sunk so low in the eyes of this noble woman—the thought smote his heart with keenest anguish!
Then the voice of the King came to him, as it were an echo,—
"One path alone can save you from perdition and everlasting woe, abandoned man! That path is now open to your steps. To-day a band of pilgrims are setting forth on their toilsome way to Rome. Depart with them and seek pardon for your sins."
Even as the King spoke, a chant was heard through the open portal. Tannhäuser recognised it as the same sweet strain he had heard that morning by the wayside cross. He kissed the hem of Elizabeth's robe once again and dared to look with mute entreaty into her eyes. Then he sprang quickly to his feet and addressed the King in two wild, hopeful words.
"To Rome!" he cried, and hurried from the hall to join the pilgrim band.
One year passed slowly by. Again it was spring-time, fragrant with the bursting of buds and melodious with the song of nesting birds. And now the return of the pilgrims was anxiously expected at Wartburg. But among them all, no heart was more anxious than Elizabeth's. Day after day she had sat in the casement overlooking the valley. Night after night she had knelt in fervent prayer for the safety of one who was a wanderer over the face of the earth. And daily would she go, attended by her maids, to the little wayside cross where Tannhäuser had knelt when the pilgrims passed by. Indeed, her whole life seemed to hang upon the love which she had given and could not recall. Her prayer was only that her loved one might be forgiven, and that she might see his face again before she died.
One afternoon just at sunset while she knelt, as her custom was, before the cross, Wolfram von Eschenbach approached her. His love was still as noble and unselfish as it had been in former days, and so he longed almost as earnestly as she for the return of her pilgrim, forgiven. That she might be happy and restored to health was his great desire. To-day the sight of her pale and wasted features alarmed him.
"Health to you, my Princess!" he said saluting her, and then continued, "Methinks it is now about the time of year when our pilgrim band should return."
"Hast heard any news?" she asked, starting up.
"None. But the hermit Peter is of opinion that they will be back before another change of the moon."