She now began to talk in a rambling manner and with that strength which comes at the point of death from somewhere; her voice was clear but with a metallic ring. What Eckhardt gathered from her broken words, was a story of trusting love, of infamous wrong, of dastardly crime. And the harper shook like a branch in the wind as the words came thick and fast from the lips of his dying child. After a while she became still—so still, that they both thought she had passed away. But she revived on a sudden and called out:
"Father,—I cannot see,—I am blind,—stoop down and let me whisper—"
"I am here little one, close—quite close to you!"
"Tell him,—I forgive— And you forgive him too—promise!"
The harper pressed his lips to the damp forehead of his child but spoke no word.
"It is bright again—they are calling me—Mother! Hold me up—I cannot breathe."
Hezilo sank on his knees with his head between his hands, shaken by convulsive sobs, while Eckhardt wound his arm round the dying girl, and as he lifted her up the spirit passed. In the room there was deep silence, broken only by the harper's heart-rending sobs. He staggered to his feet with despair in his face.
"She said forgive!" he exclaimed with broken voice. "Man—you have seen an angel die!"
"Who is the author of her death?" Eckhardt questioned, his hands so tightly clenched, that he almost drove the nails into his own flesh.
If ever words changed the countenance of man, the Margrave's question transformed the harper's grief into flaming wrath.