For, mayhap, the mystic marvels that she wove might bring her gold— A fair dowry fit to match the pride of Hildebrand the Bold!
Then she braided up her long hair, and put on her russet gown, And with wicker basket laden passed she swiftly through the town,
To the palace where Queen Ildegar, with dames of high degree, In a lofty oriel window sat, the beauteous morn to see.
In the door-way she stood meekly, till the queen said, “Maiden fair, What have you in yonder basket that you carry with such care?”
Eagerly she raised her blue eyes, hovering smiles and tears between, Then across the room she glided, and knelt down before the queen.
Lifting up the wicker cover, “Saints in heaven!” cried Ildegar, “Here are tissues fit for angels, wrought with wreath and point and star,
In most curious devices! Never saw I aught so rare— Where found you these frail webs woven of the lightest summer air?”
“Well they may be fit for angels,” said she, underneath her breath; “O my lady, hear a story that is strange and true as death.”
But ere yet the tale was ended, up rose good Queen Ildegar, And she sent her knights and pages to the castle riding far.
“Bring me Hildebrand and Volmar, ere the sun goes down!” she cried, “Ho! my ladies, for a wedding, and your queen shall bless the bride!