It was in the flood-tide of chivalry. Knighthood was in the pod. The sun was slowly setting in the east, rising and falling occasionally as it subsided, and illuminating with its dying beams the towers of the grim castle of Buggensberg. Isolde the Slender stood upon an embattled turret of the castle. Her arms were outstretched to the empty air, and her face, upturned as if in colloquy with heaven, was distraught with yearning. Anon she murmured, “Guido”—and bewhiles a deep sigh rent her breast