A great shout of approval marked the end of the Landgrave's speech.
"Hail, all hail, Lord of Thuringia!" cried hundreds of voices.
When all was still, two little pages carried a golden cup containing the names of the singers to the Princess. She drew one folded paper and handed it to the pages. They read the name and then advanced to the middle of the hall. In high, clear voices they called out,—
"Sir Wolfram von Eschenbach, begin!"
There was a short pause while Sir Wolfram rose to his feet. Tannhäuser sat, as if in a dream, leaning upon his harp. His eyes strayed through the open doorway far across the peaceful valley to the dark and gloomy mountain beyond. And though an inner voice whispered: "Turn away your eyes, Sir Knight! 'Tis the abode of evil to which your thoughts are wandering. Have a care, or magic power will rule you again!" he heeded it not.
But the eyes of Wolfram sought the pure face of the Princess on the throne. His hands evoked a tender, rippling strain from the harp—and he began to sing.
He sang a quiet song of unselfish love, pure love, which doubts not and trusts ever; which gives more than it seeks.
He sang of a love, half sacrifice, wholly devotion—which asks nothing, wants nothing, but gives, always gives. His song fell like a gentle prayer upon the ears of his listeners.
"Bravo!" they cried, when he had finished. "You have done well, Sir Wolfram. Bravo!"
And they clapped their hands and nodded in approval, whispering and smiling at one another. All but Tannhäuser. His face had changed. It had become angry, impatient, defiant. This gentle strain that spoke of endless devotion and sacrifice; was that love? No, no. He arose abruptly. He seemed to be looking beyond the familiar hall and the well-known faces, to some unseen vision of delight. An uncanny smile played about his lips. He touched the harp strings, and they jangled with strange harmonies. The people were startled, alarmed. They half rose from their seats. Was it madness that inspired the knight? Ah! if they but knew.