"'Tis the time and place that should reassure thee, my cherished one. One harboring designs of evil would have appointed a forest, mayhap, or a hostel; but never a burial-place, where no Christian man would do aught of wrong, and, my sweet wife, nor my father nor I had ever friend among infidels."
"Thou wilt go, then?" said Gertrude.
"Of a surety."
"Alone?"
"Even so, for, if it be a proscribed exile who seeks me, our varlets must not know of his presence."
"But fearest thou no danger, Otho? When thou wert alone, thou mightest laugh at prudence; but now, canst thou forget that I am here? that I love and tremble for thee?"
"Fear not, my love. Even if this request should hide a snare—which I credit not—remember that the guards of the cemetery would not give entrance to a party of armed men, and that against one I have my skill to defend me and this," said he, drawing from his belt a pointed and keen-edged dagger. "But imagine not vain terrors, my Gertrude. He who hath written me hath mayhap for long years tasted naught of tenderness or joy, and our happiness should render us the more kind to the unfortunate."
The young wife felt proudly moved at these noble words of her husband, and the happy pair began their preparations for the margrave's reception, and spoke no more of the strange meeting of the morrow.
Otho, however, did not forget it; and scarcely had he perceived the first rosy tints of day when he arose and donned his pourpoint and cloak. Gertrude yet slept, and, after kissing his wife's forehead and tenderly stroking her flaxen hair, he sallied gayly forth.
Half an hour later saw him in the burial ground; but, although he had arrived before the hour appointed, saw that the unknown was already there.