The bell of a distant hermitage came floating sadly over the plain.

With a burst of tears he exclaimed, as the darkness grew thicker round him, "My mother! my mother! I had once a beloved tender mother, and she said I was a good child!" A ray of comfort came to him as if brought on an angel's wing; perhaps Montfaucon was not yet dead! and he flew like lightning along the path, back to the steep rock.

When he got to the fearful place, he stooped and looked anxiously down the precipice.

The moon, just risen in full majesty, helped him.

The Knight of Montfaucon, pale and bleeding, was half kneeling against the rock; his right arm, crushed in his fall, hung powerless at his side; it was plain that he could not draw his good sword out of the scabbard.