As they ran in confusion hither and thither, shrieking and lamenting, a wonderful vision appeared to them. A holy monk, clad in long robes and holding a crucifix in his hand, stood upon the river bank at the spot from which Frederick the hero had leaped into the waves. He beckoned to them to listen.
“Why do you weep for your lost leader?” he said. “He is not dead. He has gone back to his own country and yours—to Germany; and with him are his mailed knights. In the Kyffhauser Mountain, in the great hall of the immortals, Frederick Barbarossa rests with his chosen heroes. He will sleep there until the eagles shall cease to fly around the mountain peaks. He will rest there until the time is ripe for the doing of mighty deeds. Then the bell shall toll the hour, the trumpet shall sound, and he will ride forth with his mailed knights to conquer the world. Weep no more; but return to your fatherland to wait for the day and the hour when your warrior king shall call you!”
And having spoken these words the strange monk vanished.
“Let us obey him and return to our homes,” was the cry. But, alas, there were few in that great host who would ever see their fatherland again.