The queen rode up the mountain, while Walpurga walked on by her side. The sun was already sinking in the west. Its slanting rays shone through the tree-tops and on the road which Gunther and the little pitchman had taken on the night before, and there were now but few signs of the rivulets that had yesterday traversed the path.

The queen did not utter a word, but she often gazed at Walpurga, and many old memories and associations were awakened in her mind. There, walking along beside me, is a woman who was brought from her home at my request. In those days, when, with the king and Gunther, I was sitting under the weeping ash, I was gentle and forgiving toward the fallen, and Gunther said I deserved that thousands should pray for me. Did I really deserve it then? Do I deserve it now? At that time, no one had ever offended or injured me, and it was easy to appear forgiving. But as soon as I was wronged, I gave way to scorn and hatred, and pride in my own virtue, and encouraged myself in that feeling. He changed his whole life, put all that was trivial and vain away from him, and devoted his whole mind to faithful labors for the sake of his people, while I became more and more austere and inflexible just because I was so virtuous. Are you so virtuous, after all? What is the virtue that lives for itself alone? And she who erred so bitterly; has she not expiated still more bitterly? Sinner though she be, she stands far above me. She died for my sake, and yet what has her death profited me? I have left my husband to achieve his difficult work unaided and alone, deserted him in the hour of greatest need. I have lived for myself alone, for to live for my child was to live for myself. I have had charity for the poor and helpless. But how as to my first duty? I could not conquer myself--and am I the one who dares say that I am capable of the highest, and "if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out?" Gunther was right. No one can save you but yourself, for no one else can so often tell you the truth.

During the many years in which she has been striving to perfect herself, and in which he has strengthened himself in noble deeds for his people, what have I been doing? It is I who have sinned. You shall not die, Irma! You must still live, so that I can tell you that I am lost if you die without having forgiven me.

The queen gladly gave way to these thoughts, for they gradually lightened the burden which had so long exerted a depressing influence upon her.

"Have we much further to go?" she asked Walpurga.

Fear again seized her. If Irma were dead! If it were too late for the meeting that would free them both!--She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart, as if it too must cease to beat when the heart up there had ceased to live. In her mind's eye, she beheld Irma, as if glorified and transfigured, while she herself seemed so pitifully small.

"We'll soon be there," said Walpurga.

A voice above was heard, calling:

"Walpurga!"

The sound was echoed again and again from the mountains.

"That's my husband," said Walpurga to the queen, and, in an equally loud voice, she called out:

"Hansei!"

He answered again from above.

Hansei drew near, and when he saw the grand gentlemen, the ladies on horseback, and the liveried servants, he took off his hat and passed his hand over his eyes, as if to satisfy himself that he saw aright.

"How is it with her?" asked Walpurga.

"She's still alive, but she won't last long. I left about an hour ago, and who knows what may have happened since then? The doctor's with her, though."

"We can't ride any farther," said the inspector. The queen and Paula alighted. Sixtus and the servants followed, while they climbed the last hill.

"That's the queen there, in the light silk shawl," said Walpurga, addressing Hansei with a significant gesture.

"It's all the same to me," he answered. "Our Irmgard's better than any of them. What matters the queen? When death comes we're pretty much the same all around. We'll all of us have to die one of these days, and then it won't matter what we've been in these few years."

Bestowing a hurried glance on Hansei, and beckoning Paula to remain behind, the queen hastened forward. She was unattended, but yet, at her right and her left, before and behind her, were the spirits of fear and of deliverance. Fear cried: "Irma is dead; you are too late--" and it seemed as if this would arrest her steps and deprive her of her breath. Deliverance cried: "Hurry on--why loiter? You are free, you bring freedom with you, and shall gain freedom for yourself."

She put forth her hands, as if to wave off the powers that were contending within and about her.

Fear gained the mastery and, with a wailing shriek for help, she cried out:

"Irma! Irma!" and "Irma, Irma," was echoed again and again from the mountains. The whole world was shouting Irma's name.

Irma was still lying within the room, and Gunther was sitting at her bedside. Her breathing was difficult. She scarcely ever turned her head, and only now and then slightly opened her eyes.

Gunther had taken Eberhard's note-book with him, and found an opportunity to read these words of his to Irma: "May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind becomes obscured."

When he read the words: "God yet dwells in that which, to us, seems lost and ruined," Irma raised herself, but she soon leaned back again and beckoned him to proceed. He read: "And should my eye be dimmed in death--I have beheld the eternal One--My eyes have penetrated eternity. Free from distortion and self-destruction, the immortal spirit soars aloft."

Gunther stopped and laid the note-book on Irma's bed. She rested her hand upon it. After a while she raised her hand and, pressing it to her brow, said, while she closed her eyes:

"And yet he chastised me!"

"Whatever he may have done to you, was not done with his free, pure will. A paroxysm, a relapse into mortality, affected it. In the spirit of your father, and as surely as I hope that truth may dwell with me in my own dying hour, I forgive you. You have achieved your own pardon. Forgive him, as he has surely forgiven you. He would bless you now, as I bless you. Remember him lovingly, for the sake of the love he bore you."

Irma seized the hand which Gunther had laid upon her brow, and kissed it. Then, without turning around, and as if speaking to herself, she said: "Stay with me," again and again.

For hours, Gunther sat by her bedside. Not a sound was heard but her painful breathing, which was gradually becoming more and more difficult.

And now, when the mountains echoed her name again and again, Irma raised her head and looked to right and left. "Do you hear it, too?" she asked. "My name--voices, voices everywhere! Voices--" The door opened, and the queen entered the room.

"Oh! at last you are here!" gasped Irma, with a deep sigh. Gathering all the strength yet left her, she raised herself up and knelt in the bed. Her long hair fell over her, her eyes sparkled with a strange luster. She folded her hands and, stretching out her arms, she cried, in heart-rending tones:

"Forgive me! Forgive me!"

"Forgive me, Irma! My sister!" sobbed the queen, clasping Irma in her arms and kissing her.

A smile passed over Irma's face. Then, uttering a loud cry, she fell back and was no more.

The queen knelt at her bedside and Walpurga, who had stood in the background, stepped forward and closed Irma's eyes.

All was hushed. Not a sound was heard, save the sobbing of the queen and Walpurga.

Steps were heard approaching.

"Where? Where is she?" cried the king.

Gunther opened the door and with both hands motioned to him to be silent.

"Dead!" cried the king.

Gunther nodded affirmatively. He beckoned to Walpurga, and she left the room with him.

The king knelt down silently beside the corpse.

The queen arose and, placing her hand on her husband's head, said:

"Forgive me, Kurt, as I am forgiven!"

He seized the proffered hand, and, hand in hand, they stood there for a long while, gazing at Irma, on whose face there rested a gentle smile, even in death. It seemed as if they could not turn away from the sight. At last, the queen removed her white shawl and spread it over Irma.

They left the hut. The sun was setting in purple glory, and all about them was hushed in silence.

Gunther approached the queen, gave her the journal wrapped in the bandage, and said: "This is Irma's bequest to Your Majesty."

The queen went up to Walpurga, silently offered her hand, and kissed the child that she was carrying in her arms.

The king offered his hand to Hansei and said: "I thank you; I shall see you again."

The little pitchman went up to the king and queen and said:

"May God reward you for having come to her. She deserved it."

The king and queen walked away in the direction of the forest. Their retinue kept in the background.