It was evident that he was either endeavouring to remember or to invent, and it seemed rather like the latter and more laborious operation of mind.
"'Why on foot, why on foot, Ritter Karl,' quoth he, 'And not on thy palfrey gray ?' Palfrey gray--hum--gray.
"'The run of ill-luck was too strong for me, 'And has galloped my steed away.' That will do: good!" "Good indeed! He is easily satisfied," muttered Kenelm.

"But such pedestrians don't pass the road every day.

Let us talk to him." So saying he slipped quietly out of the window, descended the mound, and letting himself into the road by a screened wicket-gate, took his noiseless stand behind the wayfarer and beneath the bowery willow.
The man had now sunk into silence.

Perhaps he had tired himself of rhymes; or perhaps the mechanism of verse-making had been replaced by that kind of sentiment, or that kind of revery, which is common to the temperaments of those who indulge in verse-making.

But the loveliness of the scene before him had caught his eye, and fixed it into an intent gaze upon wooded landscapes stretching farther and farther to the range of hills on which the heaven seemed to rest.
"I should like to hear the rest of that German ballad," said a voice, abruptly.
The wayfarer started, and, turning round, presented to Kenelm's view a countenance in the ripest noon of manhood, with locks and beard of a deep rich auburn, bright blue eyes, and a wonderful nameless charm both of feature and expression, very cheerful, very frank, and not without a certain nobleness of character which seemed to exact respect.
"I beg your pardon for my interruption," said Kenelm, lifting his hat: "but I overheard you reciting; and though I suppose your verses are a translation from the German, I don't remember anything like them in such popular German poets as I happen to have read." "It is not a translation, sir," replied the itinerant.