Rash words.”—They sat all three,
And the boy played with the knight’s broad star,
As he kept him on his knee.
“Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,”
The Abbot further said;
“Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s face
More deep than cloister’s shade.
“Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life.”
“Hush, Abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann,