As for the maid herself, it had all been one whirling dream since noon, when the Baron’s men had stopped her escort under the greenwood. Happy was she, in that she was too young to know all that had passed, but not too young to fear lest she were dead, and had passed to some world not heaven. Yet the dream was not wholly evil now. Though her companion did not speak, she knew that he was a friend. When the castle was high above, and the great woods thronged all around, she grew bold enough for a question.
“Who are you?”
The hermit did not reply. In his heart he was repeating an awful warning, “Fear the Tempter now, Jerome; you lead by your hand—a woman!”
“Who are you?” repeated the little maid; “for I think you are surely God, since God looks like a tall and noble man with a long white beard, and all the wicked like Baron Ulrich haste to obey him.”
“Do not blaspheme,” commanded Jerome, swift as an arrow, almost casting off her hand; “I am the most sinful creature under heaven.”
“Then you are the Devil. I have heard the Abbess call him ‘The Old Man,’ too, yet I think Baron Ulrich would never fear the Devil.”
“Hush, daughter!” ordered the hermit, groaning gently at the manifold tribulations he saw awaiting; “my name is Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale. Your poor mind wanders after all the griefs of the day. Now how were you christened?”
“Agnes; and my father is Graf Ludwig of the Harz.”
“Agnes—that is a good name for a maid. I knew an Agnes once—”
“Your own child?”