  The light and joyous dreams of morning still played round Edwald’s head when it seemed as though a clear light encompassed him. He remembered Aslauga, but it was Froda, the golden locks of whose helmet shone now with no less sunny brightness than the flowing hair of his lady. “Ah!” thought Edwald in his dream, “how beautiful has my brother-in-arms become!” And Froda said to him, “I will sing something to you, Edchen; but softly, softly, so that it may not awaken Hildegardis. Listen to me. “‘She glided in, bright as the day, There where her knight in slumber lay; And in her lily hand was seen A band that seemed of the moonlight sheen. “We are one,” she sang, as about his hair She twined it, and over her tresses fair. Beneath them the world lay dark and drear: But he felt the touch of her hand so dear, Uplifting him far above mortals’ sight, While around him were shed her locks of light, Till a garden fair lay about him spread— And this was Paradise, angels said.’” “Never in your life did you sing so sweetly,” said the dreaming Edwald. “That may well be, Edchen,” said Froda, with a smile, and vanished. But Edwald dreamed on and on, and many other visions passed before him, all of a pleasing kind, although he could not recall them when, in the full light of morning, he unclosed his eyes with a smile. Froda alone, and his mysterious song, stood clear in his memory. He now knew full well that his friend was dead; but the thought gave him no pain, for he felt sure that the pure spirit of that minstrel-warrior could only find its proper joy in the gardens of Paradise, and in blissful solace with the lofty spirits of the ancient times. He glided softly from the side of the sleeping Hildegardis to the chamber of the departed. He lay upon his bed of rest, almost as beautiful as he had appeared in the dream, and his golden helmet was entwined with a wondrously-shining lock of hair. Then Edwald made a fair and shady grave in consecrated ground, summoned the chaplain of the castle, and with his assistance laid his beloved Froda therein. He came back just as Hildegardis awoke; she beheld, with wonder and humility, his mien of chastened joy, and asked him whither he had been so early, to which he replied, with a smile, “I have just buried the corpse of my dearly-loved Froda, who, this very night, has passed away to his golden-haired mistress.” Then he related the whole history of Aslauga’s Knight, and lived on in subdued, unruffled happiness, though for some time he was even more silent and thoughtful than before. He was often found sitting on the grave of his friend, and singing the following song to his lute:— “Listening to celestial lays, Bending thy unclouded gaze On the pure and living light, Thou art blest, Aslauga’a Knight! “Send us from thy bower on high Many an angel-melody, Many a vision soft and bright, Aslauga’s dear and faithful Knight!”
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