friendly terms with Undine, whom the whole city looked upon as a
princess that Huldbrand had rescued in the forest from some evil
enchantment. Whenever any one questioned either herself or her
husband relative to surmises of this nature, they had wisdom enough
to remain silent, or wit enough to evade the inquiries. The lips of
Father Heilmann had been sealed in regard to idle gossip of every
kind; and besides, on Huldbrand's arrival, he had immediately
returned to his cloister: so that people were obliged to rest
contented with their own wild conjectures; and even Bertalda herself
ascertained nothing more of the truth than others.

For the rest, Undine daily felt more love for the fair maiden. "We
must have been before acquainted with each other," she often used to
say to her, "or else there must be some mysterious connection between
us, for it is incredible that any one so perfectly without cause--
I mean, without some deep and secret cause--should be so fondly
attached to another as I have been to you from the first moment of
our meeting."

And even Bertalda could not deny that she felt a confiding impulse,
an attraction of tenderness toward Undine, much as she deemed this
fortunate rival the cause of her bitterest disappointment. Under the
influence of this mutual regard, they found means to persuade, the
one her foster-parents, and the other her husband, to defer the day
of separation to a period more and more remote; nay, more, they had
already begun to talk of a plan for Bertalda's accompanying Undine to
Castle Ringstetten, near one of the sources of the Danube.

Once on a fine evening they happened to be talking over their scheme
just as they passed the high trees that bordered the public walk.