CHAPTER I.

On the eve of St. Medard’s Day in the year 1281, the moon, which

had just risen, was shining brightly upon the imperial free city of

Nuremberg; its rays found their way into the street leading from the

strong Marienthurm to the Frauenthor, but entrance to the Ortlieb

mansion was barred by a house, a watchtower, and--most successfully

of all--by a tall linden tree. Yet there was something to be seen here

which even now, when Nuremberg sheltered the Emperor Rudolph and so many

secular and ecclesiastical princes, counts, and knights, awakened Luna’s

curiosity. True, this something had naught in common with the brilliant

spectacles of which there was no lack during this month of June; on the

contrary, it was very quiet here. An imperial command prohibited the

soldiery from moving about the city at night, and the Frauenthor,

through which during the day plenty of people and cattle passed in and

out had been closed long before. Very few of the worthy burghers--who

went to bed betimes and rose so early that they rarely had leisure to

enjoy the moonlight long--passed here at this hour. The last one, an

honest master weaver, had moved with a very crooked gait. As he saw the

moon double--like everything else around and above him--he had wondered

whether the man up there had a wife. He expected no very pleasant

reception from his own at home. The watchman, who--the moon did not

exactly know why--lingered a short time in front of the Ortlieb mansion,

followed the burgher. Then came a priest who, with the sacristan and

several lantern bearers, was carrying the sacrament to a dying man in

St. Clarengasse.

There was usually more to be seen at this hour on the other side of the

city--the northwestern quarter--where the fortress rose on its hill,

dominating the Thiergartenthor at its foot; for the Emperor Rudolph

occupied the castle, and his brother-in-law, Burgrave Friedrich von

Zollern, his own residence. This evening, however, there was little

movement even there; the Emperor and his court, the Burgrave and his

train, with all the secular and ecclesiastical princes, counts, and

knights, had gone to the Town Hall with their ladies. High revel was

held there, and inspiring music echoed through the open windows of the

spacious apartment, where the Emperor Rudolph also remained during the

ball. Here the moonbeams might have been reflected from glittering steel

or the gold, silver, and gems adorning helmets, diadems, and gala robes;

or they might surely have found an opportunity to sparkle on the ripples

of the Pegnitz River, which divided the city into halves; but the

heavenly wanderer, from the earliest times, has preferred leafy hidden

nooks to scenes of noisy gaiety, a dim light to a brilliant glare. Luna

likes best to gaze where there is a secret to be discovered, and mortals

have always been glad to choose her as a confidante. Something exactly

suited to her taste must surely be going on just now near the linden

which, in all the splendour of fullest bloom, shaded the street in front

of the Ortlieb mansion; for she had seen two fair girls grow up in the

ancient dwelling with the carved escutcheon above the lofty oak door,

and the ample garden--and the younger, from her earliest childhood, had

been on especially intimate terms with her.

Now the topmost boughs of the linden, spite of their dense foliage,

permitted a glimpse of the broad courtyard which separated the patrician

residence from the street.

A chain, which with graceful curves united a short row of granite posts,

shut out the pedestrians, the vehicles and horsemen, the swine and other

animals driven through the city gate. In contrast with the street, which

in bad weather resembled an almost impassable swamp, it was always kept

scrupulously clean, and the city beadle might spare himself the trouble

of looking there for the carcasses of sucking pigs, cats, hens, and

rats, which it was his duty to carry away.

A young man with an unusually tall and powerful figure was standing in

this yard, gazing up at a window in the second story. The shadow of the

linden concealed his features and his dress, but the moon had already

seen him more than once in this very spot and knew that he was a

handsome fellow, whose bronzed countenance, with its prominent nose and

broad brow, plainly indicated a strong will. She had also seen the

scar stretching from the roots of his long brown locks across the whole

forehead to the left cheek-bone, that lent the face a martial air. Yet

he belonged to no military body, but was the son of a noble family of

Nuremberg, which boasted, it is true, of “knightly blood” and the right

of its sons to enter the lists of the tournament, but was engaged

in peaceful pursuits; for it carried on a trade with Italy and

the Netherlands, and every male scion of the Eysvogel race had the

birthright of being elected a member of the Honourable Council and

taking part in the government of Nuremberg.

The moon had long known that the young man in the courtyard was an

Eysvogel, nor was this difficult to discover. Every child in Nuremberg

was familiar with the large showy coat of arms lately placed above the

lofty doorway of the Eysvogel mansion; and the nocturnal visitor wore a

doublet on whose left breast was embroidered the same coat of arms, with

three birds in the shield and one on the helmet.

He had already waited some time in vain, but now a young girl’s head

appeared at the window, and a gay fresh voice called his Christian name,

“Wolff!”

Waving his cap, he stepped nearer to the casement, greeted her warmly,

and told her that he had come at this late hour to say good-night,

though only from the front yard.

“Come in,” she entreated. “True, my father and Eva have gone to the

dance at the Town Hall, but my aunt, the abbess, is sitting with my

mother.”

“No, no,” replied Wolff, “I only stopped in passing. Besides, I am

stealing even this brief time.”

“Business?” asked the young girl. “Do you know, I am beginning to be

jealous of the monster which, like an old spider, constantly binds you

closer and closer in its web. What sort of dealing is this?--to give

the whole day to business, and only a few minutes of moonlight to your

betrothed bride!

“I wish it were otherwise,” sighed Wolff. “You do not know how hard

these times are, Els! Nor how many thoughts beset my brain, since my

father has placed me in charge of all his new enterprises.”

“Always something new,” replied Els, with a shade of reproach in her

tone. “What an omnivorous appetite this Eysvogel business possesses!

Ullmann Nutzel said lately: ‘Wherever one wants to buy, the

bird--[vogel]--has been ahead and snapped up everything in Venice and

Milan. And the young one is even sharper at a bargain,’ he added.”

“Because I want to make a warm nest for you, dearest,” replied Wolff.

“As if we were shopkeepers anxious to secure customers!” said the girl,

laughing. “I think the old Eysvogel house must have enough big stoves to

warm its son and his wife. At the Tuckers the business supports seven,

with their wives and children. What more do we want? I believe that we

love each other sincerely, and though I understand life better than Eva,

to whom poverty and happiness are synonymous, I don’t need, like the

women of your family, gold plates for my breakfast porridge or a bed

of Levantine damask for my lapdog. And the dowry my father will give me

would supply the daughters of ten knights.”

“I know it, sweetheart,” interrupted Wolff dejectedly; “and how gladly I

would be content with the smallest--”

“Then be so!” she exclaimed cheerily. “What you would call ‘the

smallest,’ others term wealth. You want more than competence, and I--the

saints know-would be perfectly content with ‘good.’ Many a man has been

shipwrecked on the cliffs of ‘better’ and ‘best.’”

Fired with passionate ardour, he exclaimed, “I am coming in now.”

“And the business?” she asked mischievously. “Let it go as it will,” he

answered eagerly, waving his hand. But the next instant he dropped it

again, saying thoughtfully: “No, no; it won’t do, there is too much at

stake.”

Els had already turned to send Katterle, the maid, to open the heavy

house door, but ere doing so she put her beautiful head out again, and

asked:

“Is the matter really so serious? Won’t the monster grant you even a

good-night kiss?”

“No,” he answered firmly. “Your menservants have gone, and before the

maid could open----There is the moon rising above the linden already.

It won’t do. But I’ll see you to-morrow and, please God, with a lighter

heart. We may have good news this very day.”

“Of the wares from Venice and Milan?” asked Els anxiously.

“Yes, sweetheart. Two waggon trains will meet at Verona. The first

messenger came from Ingolstadt, the second from Munich, and the one from

Landshut has been here since day before yesterday. Another should have

arrived this morning, but the intense heat yesterday, or some cause--at

any rate there is reason for anxiety. You don’t know what is at stake.”

“But peace was proclaimed yesterday,” said Els, “and if robber knights

and bandits should venture----But, no! Surely the waggons have a strong

escort.”

“The strongest,” answered Wolff. “The first wain could not arrive before

to-morrow morning.”

“You see!” cried the girl gaily. “Just wait patiently. When you are

once mine I’ll teach you not to look on the dark side. O Wolff, why is

everything made so much harder for us than for others? Now this evening,

it would have been so pleasant to go to the ball with you.”

“Yet, how often, dearest, I have urged you in vain----” he began, but

she hastily interrupted “Yes, it was certainly no fault of yours, but

one of us must remain with my mother, and Eva----”

“Yesterday she complained to me with tears in her eyes that she would be

forced to go to this dance, which she detested.”

“That is the very reason she ought to go,” explained Els. “She is

eighteen years old, and has never yet been induced to enter into any of

the pleasures other girls enjoy. When she isn’t in the convent she is

always at home, or with Aunt Kunigunde or one of the nuns in the woods

and fields. If she wants to take the veil later, who can prevent it, but

the abbess herself advises that she should have at least a glimpse of

the world before leaving it. Few need it more, it seems to me, than our

Eva.”

“Certainly,” Wolff assented. “Such a lovely creature! I know no girl

more beautiful in all Nuremberg.”

“Oh! you----,” said his betrothed bride, shaking her finger at her

lover, but he answered promptly,

“You just told me that you preferred ‘good’ to ‘better,’ and so

doubtless ‘fair’ to ‘fairer,’ and you are beautiful, Els, in person and

in soul. As for Eva, I admire, in pictures of madonnas and angels, those

wonderful saintly eyes with their uplifted gaze and marvellously long

lashes, the slight droop of the little head, and all the other charms;

yet I gladly dispense with them in my heart’s darling and future wife.

But you, Els--if our Lord would permit me to fashion out of divine clay

a life companion after my own heart, do you know how she would look?”

“Like me--exactly like Els Ortlieb, of course,” replied the girl

laughing.

“A correct guess, with all due modesty,” Wolff answered gaily. “But take

care that she does not surpass your wishes. For you know, if the little

saint should meet at the dance some handsome fellow whom she likes

better than the garb of a nun, and becomes a good Nuremberg wife, the

excess of angelic virtue will vanish; and if I had a brother--in serious

earnest--I would send him to your Eva.”

“And,” cried Els, “however quickly her mood changes, it will surely do

her no harm. But as yet she cares nothing about you men. I know her, and

the tears she shed when our father gave her the costly Milan suckenie,

in which she went to the ball, were anything but tears of joy.”

[Suckenie--A long garment, fitting the upper part of the body

closely and widening very much below the waist, with openings for

the arms.]

“I only wonder,” added Wolff, “that you persuaded her to go; the pious

lamb knows how to use her horns fiercely enough.”

“Oh, yes,” Els assented, as if she knew it by experience; then she

eagerly continued, “She is still just like an April day.”

“And therefore,” Wolff remarked, “the dance which she began with tears

will end joyously enough. The young knights and nobles will gather

round her like bees about honey. Count von Montfort, my brother-in-law

Siebenburg says, is also at the Town Hall with his daughter.”

“And the comet Cordula was followed, as usual, by a long train of

admirers,” said Els. “My father was obliged to give the count lodgings;

it could not be avoided. The Emperor Rudolph had named him to the

Council among those who must be treated with special courtesy. So he

was assigned to us, and the whole suite of apartments in the back of the

house, overlooking the garden, is now filled with Montforts, Montfort

household officials, menservants, squires, pages, and chaplains.

Montfort horses and hounds crowd our good steeds out of their stalls.

Besides the twenty stabled here, eighteen were put in the brewery in

the Hundsgasse, and eight belong to Countess Cordula. Then the constant

turmoil all day long and until late at night! It is fortunate that they

do not lodge with us in the front of the house! It would be very bad for

my mother!”

“Then you can rejoice over the departure all the more cordially,”

observed Wolff.

“It will hardly cause us much sorrow,” Els admitted. “Yet the young

countess brings much merriment into our quiet house. She is certainly a

tireless madcap, and it will vex your proud sister Isabella to know that

your brother-in-law Siebenburg is one of her admirers. Did she not go to

the Town Hall?”

“No,” Wolff answered; “the twins have changed her wonderfully. You saw

the dress my mother pressed upon her for the ball--Genoese velvet and

Venetian lace! Its cost would have bought a handsome house. She was

inclined, too, to appear as a young mother at the festival, and I assure

you that she looked fairly regal in the magnificent attire. But this

morning, after she had bathed the little boys, she changed her mind.

Though my mother, and even my grandmother, urged her to go, she insisted

that she belonged to the twins, and that some evil would befall the

little ones if she left them.”

“That is noble!” cried Els in delight, “and if I should ever---. Yet

no, Isabella and I cannot be compared. My husband will never be

numbered among the admirers of another woman, like your detestable

brother-in-law. Besides, he is wasting time with Cordula. Her

worldliness repels Eva, it is true, but I have heard many pleasant

things about her. Alas! she is a motherless girl, and her father is an

old reveller and huntsman, who rejoices whenever she does any audacious

act. But he keeps his purse open to her, and she is kind-hearted and

obliging to a degree----”

“Equalled by few,” interrupted Wolff, with a sneer. “The men know how

to praise her for it. No paternoster would be imposed upon her in the

confessional on account of cruel harshness.”

“Nor for a sinful or a spiteful deed,” replied Els positively. “Don’t

say anything against her to me, Wolff, in spite of your dissolute

brother-in-law. I have enough to do to intercede for her with Eva and

Aunt Kunigunde since she singed and oiled the locks of a Swiss knight

belonging to the Emperor’s court. Our Katterle brought the coals. But

many other girls do that, since courtesy permits it. Her train to the

Town Hall certainly made a very brave show; the fifty freight waggons

you are expecting will scarcely form a longer line.”

The young merchant started. The comparison roused his forgotten anxiety

afresh, and after a few brief, tender words of farewell he left the

object of his love. Els gazed thoughtfully after him; the moonlight

revealed his tall, powerful figure for a long time. Her heart throbbed

faster, and she felt more deeply than ever how warmly she loved him. He

moved as though some heavy burden of care bowed his strong shoulders.

She would fain have hastened after him, clung to him, and asked what

troubled him, what he was concealing from her who was ready to share

everything with him, but the Frauenthor, through which he entered the

city, already hid him from her gaze.

She turned back into the room with a faint sigh. It could scarcely be

solely anxiety about his expected goods that burdened her lover’s mind.

True, his weak, arrogant mother, and still more his grandmother, the

daughter of a count, who lived with them in the Eysvogel house and still

ruled her daughter as if she were a child, had opposed her engagement to

Wolff, but their resistance had ceased since the betrothal. On the

other hand, she had often heard that Fran Eysvogel, the haughty mother,

dowerless herself, had many poor and extravagant relations besides

her daughter and her debt-laden, pleasure-loving husband, Sir Seitz

Siebenburg, who, it could not be denied, all drew heavily upon the

coffers of the ancient mercantile house. Yet it was one of the richest

in Nuremberg. Yes, something of which she was still ignorant must be

oppressing Wolff, and, with the firm resolve to give him no peace until

he confessed everything to her, she returned to the couch of her invalid

mother.

CHAPTER II.

Wolff had scarcely vanished from the street, and Els from the window,

when a man’s slender figure appeared, as if it had risen from the earth,

beside the spurge-laurel tree at the left of the house. Directly after

some one rapped lightly on the pavement of the yard, and in a few

minutes the heavy ironbound oak doors opened and a woman’s hand beckoned

to the late guest, who glided swiftly along in the narrow line of shadow

cast by the house and vanished through the entrance.

The moon looked after him doubtfully. In former days the

narrow-shouldered fellow had been seen near the Ortlieb house often

enough, and his movements had awakened Luna’s curiosity; for he had been

engaged in amorous adventure even when work was still going on at the

recently completed convent of St. Clare--an institution endowed by the

Ebner brothers, to which Herr Ernst Ortlieb added a considerable sum. At

that time--about three years before--the bold fellow had gone there to

keep tryst evening after evening, and the pretty girl who met him was

Katterle, the waiting maid of the beautiful Els, as Nuremberg folk

called the Ortlieb sisters, Els and Eva. Many vows of ardent, changeless

love for her had risen to the moon, and the outward aspect of the man

who made them afforded a certain degree of assurance that he would

fulfil his pledges, for he then wore the long dark robe of reputable

people, and on the front of his cap, from which a net shaped like a bag

hung down his back, was a large S, and on the left shoulder of his

long coat a T, the initials of the words Steadfast and True. They bore

witness that the person who had them embroidered on his clothing deemed

these virtues the highest and noblest. It might have been believed

that the lean fellow, who scarcely looked his five-and-thirty years,

possessed these lofty traits of character; for, though three full years

had passed since his last meeting with Katterle at the building site,

he had gone to his sweetheart with his wonted steadfastness and truth

immediately after the Emperor Rudolph’s entry.

He had given her reason to rely upon him; but the moon’s gaze reaches

far, and had discovered the quality of Walther Biberli’s “steadfastness

and truth.”

In one respect it proved the best and noblest; for among thousands of

servitors the moon had not seen one who clung to his lord with more

loyal devotion. Towards pretty young women, on the contrary, he

displayed his principal virtues in a very singular way; for the pallid

nocturnal wanderer above had met him in various lands and cities, and

wherever he tarried long another maid was added to the list of those to

whom Biberli vowed steadfastness and truth.

True, whenever Sir Long Coat’s travels led him back to any one to whom

he had sworn eternal love, he went first to her, if she, too, retained

the old affection. But Katterle had cause to care for him most, for he

was more warmly devoted to her than to any of the others, and in his own

fashion his intentions were honest. He seriously intended, as soon as

his master left the imperial court--which he hoped would not happen too

soon--and returned to his ancestral castle in his native Switzerland,

to establish a home of his own for his old age, and no one save Katterle

should light the hearth fire. Her outward circumstances pleased him, as

well as her disposition and person. She was free-born, like himself--the

son of a forest keeper--and, again like him, belonged to a Swiss family;

her heritage (she was an orphan), which consisted of a house and arable

land in her home, Sarnen, where she still sent her savings, satisfied

his requirements. But above all she believed in him and admired his

versatile mind and his experience. Moreover, she gave him absolute

obedience, and loved him so loyally that she had remained unwedded,

though a number of excellent men had sought her in marriage.

Katterle had met him for the first time more than three years before

when, after the battle of Marchfield, he remained several weeks in

Nuremberg. They had sat side by side at a tournament, and, recognising

each other as Swiss-born by the sharp sound of the letters “ch” and the

pronunciation of other words, were mutually attracted.

Katterle had a kind heart; yet at that time she almost yielded to the

temptation to pray Heaven not to hasten the cure of a brave man’s wounds

too quickly, for she knew that Biberli was a squire in the service

of the young Swiss knight Heinz Schorlin, whose name was on every lip

because, in spite of his youth, he had distinguished himself at the

battle of Marchfield by his rare bravery, and that the young hero would

remain in Nuremberg only until his severe injuries were completely

healed. His departure would bring to her separation from his servant,

and sometimes when homesickness tortured her she thought she would be

unable to survive the parting. Meanwhile Biberli nursed his master with

faithful zeal, as if nothing bound him to Nuremberg, and even after his

departure Katterle remained in good health.

Now she had him again. Directly after the Emperor Rudolph’s entrance,

five days before, Biberli had come openly to the Ortlieb house and

presented himself to Martsche,--[Margaret]--the old house keeper, as the

countryman and friend of the waiting maid, who had brought her a message

from home.

True, it had been impossible to say anything confidential either in

the crowded kitchen or in the servants’ hall. To-night’s meeting was to

afford the opportunity.

The menservants, carrying sedan chairs and torches, had all gone out

with their master, who had taken his younger daughter, Eva, to the

dance. They were to wait in front of the Town Hall, because it was

doubtful whether the daughter of the house, who had been very reluctant

to go to the entertainment, might not urge an early departure. Count

von Montfort, whose quarters were in the Ortlieb mansion, and his whole

train of male attendants, certainly would not come back till very late

at night or even early morning, for the Countess Cordula remained at a

ball till the close, and her father lingered over the wine cup till his

daughter called him from the revellers.

All this warranted the lovers in hoping for an undisturbed interview.

The place of meeting was well chosen. It was unsatisfactory only to the

moon for, after Biberli had closed the heavy door of the house behind

him, Luna found no chink or crevice through which a gliding ray might

have watched what the true and steadfast Biberli was saying to Katterle.

There was one little window beside the door, but it was closed, and

the opening was covered with sheepskin. So the moon’s curiosity was not

gratified.

Instead of her silver rays, the long entry of the Ortlieb house, with

its lofty ceiling, was illumined only by the light of three lanterns,

which struggled dimly through horn panes. The shining dots in a dark

corner of the spacious corridor were the eyes of a black cat, watching

there for rats and mice.

The spot really possessed many advantages for the secret meeting of two

lovers, for as it ran through the whole width of the house, it had two

doors, one leading to the street, the other into the yard. In the right

wall of the entry there were also two small doors, reached by a flight

of steps. At this hour both closed empty rooms, for the office and the

chamber where Herr Ernst Ortlieb received his business friends had not

been occupied since sunset, and the bathroom and dressing-room adjoining

were used only during the day.

True, some unbidden intruder might have come down the long broad

staircase leading to the upper story. But in that case the lovers had

the best possible hiding-place close at hand, for here large and small

boxes, standing side by side and one above another, formed a protecting

wall; yonder heaps of sacks and long rows of casks afforded room for

concealment behind them. Rolls of goods packed in sacking leaned against

the chests, inviting a fugitive to slip back of them, and surely no

one would suspect the presence of a pair of lovers in the rear of these

mountains of hides and bales wrapped in matting. Still it would scarcely

have been advisable to remain near them; for these packages, which the

Ortlieb house brought from Venice, contained pepper and other spices

that exhaled a pungent odor, endurable only by hardened nerves.

Valuable goods of various kinds lay here until they could be placed in

cellars or storehouses or sold. But there was many an empty space,

too, in the broad corridor for, spite of Emperor Rudolph’s strictness,

robbery on the highroads had by no means ceased, and Herr Ernst Ortlieb

was still compelled to use caution in the transportation of costly

wares.

After Biberli and his sweetheart had assured themselves that the ardour

of their love had by no means cooled, they sat down on some bags filled

with cloves and related to each other the experiences through which they

had passed during the period of separation.

Katterle’s life had flowed on in a pleasant monotony. She had no cause

to complain of her employers.

Fran Maria Ortlieb, the invalid mistress of the house, rarely needed her

services.

During a ride to visit relatives in Ulm, the travellers, who were under

the same escort of men at arms as a number of Nuremberg freight waggons,

had been attacked by the robber knights Absbach and Hirschhorn. An

arrow had struck Frau Ortlieb’s palfrey, causing the unfortunate woman

a severe fall, which produced an internal injury, from which she had not

yet recovered. The assault resulted unfortunately for young Hirschhorn,

who led it; he met with a shameful death on the gallows.

The information enraged Biberli. Instead of feeling any sympathy for the

severely injured lady, he insisted that the Nuremberg burghers had

dealt with Hirschhorn in a rascally fashion; for he was a knight, and

therefore, as honest judges familiar with the law, they ought to have

put him to death by the sword instead of with the rope. And Katterle

agreed with him; she never contradicted his opinions, and surely

Biberli must know what treatment befitted a knight, since he was the

foster-brother of one.

Nor did the maid, who was in the personal service of the daughters of

the house, make any complaint against them. Indeed, she could not praise

Els, the elder, sufficiently. She was very just, the careful nurse of

her invalid mother, and always unvarying in her cheerful kindness.

She had no fault to find with Eva either, especially as she was more

religious than any one in the whole house. Spite of her marvellous

beauty--Katterle knew that there was nothing false about it--she would

probably end by joining the nuns in the convent. But her mood changed

with every breath, like the weathercock on the steeple. If she got out

of bed the wrong way, or one did not guess her wishes before they

were uttered, she would fly into a rage at the least trifle. Then she

sometimes used very unkind words; but no one could cherish anger against

her long, for she had an indescribably lovely manner of trying to atone

for the offences which her hasty young blood made her commit. She had

gone to the ball that night as if it were a funeral; she shunned men

like poison, and even kept out of the way of her sister’s friends.

Biberli laughed, as if there could be no doubt of his opinion, and

exclaimed: “Just wait a while! My master will meet her at the Town Hall

tonight, and if the scrawny little squirrel I saw three years ago has

really grown up into such a beauty, if he does not get on her track and

capture her, my name isn’t Biberli.”

“But surely,” replied Katterle doubtfully, “you told me that you had

not yet succeeded in persuading him to imitate you in steadfastness and

truth.”

“But he is a knight,” replied the servant, striking himself pompously

under the T on his shoulder, as if he, too, belonged to this favoured

class, “and so he is as free to pursue a woman as to hunt the game in

the forest. And my Heinz Schorlin! You saw him, and admitted that he was

worth looking at. And that was when he had scarcely recovered from his

dangerous wounds, while now----The French Knight de Preully, in Paris,

with whom my dead foster-brother, until he fell sick-----” Here he

hesitated; an enquiring look from his sweetheart showed that--perhaps

for excellent reasons--he had omitted to tell her about his sojourn in

Paris.

Now that he had grown older and abandoned the wild revelry of that

period in favour of truth and steadfastness, he quietly related

everything she desired to know.

He had acquired various branches of learning while sharing the studies

of his foster-brother, the eldest son of the old Knight Schorlin, who

was then living, and therefore, when scarcely twenty, was appointed

schoolmaster at Stansstadt. Perhaps he might have continued to

teach--for he promised to be successful--had not a vexatious discovery

disgusted him with his calling.

He was informed that the mercenaries in the Schnitzthurm guard were paid

five shillings a week more than he, spite of the knowledge he had gained

by so much toil.

In his indignation he went back to Schorlin Castle, which was always

open to him, and he arrived just at the right time.

His present master’s older brother, whose health had always been

delicate, being unable to follow the profession of arms, was on the

eve of departing to attend the university at Paris, accompanied by the

chaplain and an equerry. When the Lady Wendula, his master’s

mother, learned what an excellent reputation Biberli had gained as a

schoolmaster, she persuaded her husband to send him as esquire with

their sickly son.

In Paris there was at first no lack of pleasures of every description,

especially as they met among the king’s mercenaries many a dissolute

Swiss knight and man at arms. His foster-brother, to his sorrow, was

unable to resist the temptations which Satan scatters in Paris as the

peasants elsewhere sow rye and oats, and the young knight was soon

attacked, by a severe illness. Then Biberli’s gay life ended too. For

months he did not leave his foster-brother’s sick bed a single hour, by

day or night, until death released him from his suffering.

On his return to Castle Schorlin he found many changes; the old knight

had been called away from earth a few days before his son’s death, and

Heinz Schorlin, his present master, had fallen heir to castle and

lands. This, however, was no great fortune, for the large estates of the

Schorlin family were burdened by heavy debts.

The dead lord, as countryman, boon companion, and brother in arms of

the Emperor Rudolph, had been always ready to place his sword at his

service, and whenever a great tournament was held he never failed to be

present. So the property had been consumed, and the Lady Wendula and

her son and three daughters were left in moderate circumstances. The

two older girls had taken the veil, while the youngest, a merry little

maiden, lived with her mother.

But the Emperor Rudolph had by no means forgotten the Lady Wendula and

her dead husband, and with the utmost kindness requested her to send

him her only son as soon as he was able to wield a sword and lance. He

intended to repay Heinz for the love and loyalty his father had shown

him through his whole life.

“And the Hapsburg,” Biberli added, “had kept his word.”

In a few years his young lord was ready for a position at court.

Gotthard von Ramsweg, the Lady Wendula’s older brother, a valiant

knight, went to his sister’s home after her husband’s death to manage

the estate and instruct his nephew in all the exercises of knighthood.

Soon the strong, agile, fearless son of a brave father, under the

guidance of such a teacher, excelled many an older youth. He was barely

eighteen when the Lady Wendula sent him to his imperial master. She had

given him, with her blessing, fiery horses, the finest pieces of his

father’s suits of mail, an armour bearer, and a groom to take with him

on his journey; and his uncle had agreed to accompany him to Lausanne,

where the Emperor Rudolph was then holding his court to discuss with

Pope Gregory--the tenth of the name--arrangements for a new crusade. But

nothing had yet been said about Biberli. On the evening before the young

noble’s departure, however, a travelling minstrel came to the castle,

who sang of the deeds of former crusaders, and alluded very touchingly

to the loneliness of the wounded knight, Herr Weisenthau, on his couch

of pain. Then the Lady Wendula remembered her eldest son, and the

fraternal tendance which Biberli had given him.

“And so,” the servant went on, “in the anxiety of a mother’s heart she

urged me to accompany Heinz, her darling, as esquire; and watch over his

welfare.”

“Since I could use a pen, I was to write now and then what a mother

desires to hear of a son. She felt great confidence in me, because she

believed that I was true and steadfast. And I have kept in every respect

the vow I then made to the Lady Wendula--that she should not find

herself mistaken in me. I remember that evening as if it were only

yesterday. To keep constantly before my eyes the praise my mistress had

bestowed upon me, I ventured to ask my young master’ sister to embroider

the T and the S on the cap and the new coat, and the young lady did so

that very night. Since that time these two initials have gone with me

wherever our horses bear us, and as, after the battle of Marchfield,

Biberli nursed his master back to health with care and toil, he thinks

he can prove to you, his sole sweetheart, that he wears his T and S with

good reason.”

In return for these words Katterle granted her friend the fitting reward

with such resignation that it was robbing the moon not to permit her to

look on. Her curiosity, however, was not to remain wholly ungratified;

for when Biberli found that it was time for him to repair to the Town

Hall to learn whether his master, Heinz Schorlin, needed his services,

Katterle came out of the house door with him.

They found much more to say and to do ere they parted.

First, the Swiss maid-servant wished to know how the Emperor Rudolph had

received Heinz Schorlin; and she had the most gratifying news.

During their stay at Lausanne, where he won the victory in a tournament,

Heinz was knighted; but after the battle of Marchfield he became still

dearer to the Emperor, especially when a firm friendship united the

young Swiss to Hartmann, Rudolph’s eighteen-year-old son, who was now

on the Rhine. That very day Heinz had received a tangible proof of the

imperial favour, on account of which he had gone to the dance in an

extremely cheerful mood.

This good news concerning the knight, whom her young mistress had

perhaps already met, awakened in the maid, who was not averse to the

business of matchmaking, so dear to her sex, very aspiring plans which

aimed at nothing less than a union between Eva and Heinz Schorlin. But

Biberli had scarcely perceived the purport of Katterle’s words when he

anxiously interrupted her and, declaring that he had already lingered

too long, cut short the suggestion by taking leave.

His master’s marriage to a young girl who belonged to the city nobility,

which in his eyes was far inferior in rank to a Knight Schorlin, should

cast no stone in the pathway of fame that was leading him so swiftly

upward. Many things must happen before Biberli could honestly advise

him to give up his present free and happy life and seek rest in his own

nest.

If Eva Ortlieb were as lovely as the Virgin herself, and Sir Heinz’s

inflammable heart should blaze as fervently as it always did, she should

not lure him into the paralysing bondage of wedlock so long as he was

there and watched over him.

If he must be married, Biberli had something else in view for

him--something which would make him a great lord at a single stroke. But

it was too soon even for that.

When he crossed the Fleischbrucke in the market place and approached the

brilliantly lighted Town Hall, he had considerable difficulty in moving

forward, for the whole square was thronged with curious spectators,

servants in gala liveries, sedan chairs, richly caparisoned steeds,

and torchbearers. The von Montfort retinue, which had quarters in the

Ortlieb house, was one of the most brilliant and numerous of all,

and Biberli’s eyes wandered with a look of satisfaction over the

gold-mounted sedan chair of the young countess. He would rather have

given his master to her than to the Nuremberg maiden whom Katterle

compared to a weathercock, and who therefore certainly did not possess

the lofty virtue of steadfastness.

CHAPTER III.

Sir Heinz Schorlin’s servant was on intimate terms with many of the

servitors of the imperial family, and one of them conducted him to the

balcony of the city pipers, which afforded a view of the great hall. The

Emperor sat there at the head of the banquet table, and by his side, on

a lower throne, his sister, the Burgravine von Zollern. Only the most

distinguished and aristocratic personages whom the Reichstag attracted

to Nuremberg, with their ladies, shared the feast given by the city in

their honour.

But yonder, at a considerable distance from them, though within the

space enclosed by a black and yellow silk cord, separated from the

glittering throng of the other guests, he perceived--he would not trust

his own eyes--the Knight Heinz Schorlin, and by his side a wonderfully

charming young girl.

Biberli had not seen Eva Ortlieb for three years, yet he knew that

it was no other than she. But into what a lovely creature the active,

angular child with the thin little arms had developed!

The hall certainly did not lack superb women of all ages and every style

of figure and bearing suited to please the eye. Many might even boast of

more brilliant, aristocratic beauty, but not one could vie in witchery

with her on whom Katterle had cast an eye for his master. She had only

begun a modest allusion to it, but even that was vexatious; for Biberli

fancied that she had thereby “talked of the devil,” and he did not wish

him to appear.

With a muttered imprecation, by no means in harmony with his character,

he prepared to leave the balcony; but the scene below, though it

constantly filled him with fresh vexation, bound him to the spot as if

by some mysterious spell.

Especially did he fancy that he had a bitter taste in his mouth when his

gaze noted the marvellous symmetry of Heinz Schorlin’s powerful

though not unusually tall figure, his beautiful waving locks, and the

aristocratic ease with which he wore his superb velvet robe-sapphire

blue on the left side and white on the right, embroidered with silver

falcons-or perceived how graciously the noblest of the company greeted

him after the banquet; not, indeed, from envy, but because it pierced

his very heart to think that this splendid young favourite of fortune,

already so renowned, whom he warmly loved, should throw himself away on

the daughter of a city merchant, though his motley wares, which he had

just seen, were adorned by the escutcheon of a noble house.

But Heinz Schorlin had already been attracted by many more aristocratic

fair ones, only to weary of them speedily enough. This time, also,

Biberli would have relied calmly on his fickleness had Katterle’s

foolish wish only remained unuttered, and had Heinz treated his

companion in the gay, bold fashion which usually marked his manner to

other ladies. But his glance had a modest, almost devout expression when

he gazed into the large blue eyes of the merchant’s daughter. And now

she raised them! It could not fail to bewitch the most obdurate woman

hater!

Faithful, steadfast Biberli clenched his fists, and once even thought

of shouting “Fire!”, into the ballroom below to separate all who were

enjoying themselves there wooing and being wooed.

But those beneath perceived neither him nor his wrath--least of all his

master and the young girl who had come hither so reluctantly.

At home Eva had really done everything in her power to be permitted to

stay away from the Town Hall. Herr Ernst Ortlieb, her father, however,

had been inflexible. The chin of the little man with beardless face

and hollow cheeks had even begun to tremble, and this was usually the

precursor of an outburst of sudden wrath which sometimes overpowered him

to such a degree that he committed acts which he afterwards regretted.

This time he had been compelled not to tolerate the opposition of his

obstinate child. Emperor Rudolph himself had urged the “honourable”

members of the Council to gratify him and his daughter-in-law Agnes,

whom he wished to entertain pleasantly during her brief visit, by the

presence of their beautiful wives and daughters at the entertainment in

the Town Hall.

Herr Ortlieb’s invalid wife could not spare Els, her older daughter and

faithful nurse, so he required Eva’s obedience, and compelled her to

give up her opposition to attending the festival; but she dreaded the

vain, worldly gaiety--nay, actually felt a horror of it.

Even while still a pupil at the convent school she had often asked

herself whether it would not be the fairest fate for her, like her Aunt

Kunigunde, the abbess of the convent of St. Clare, to vow herself to

the Saviour and give up perishable joys to secure the rapture of heaven,

which lasted throughout eternity, and might begin even here on earth,

in a quiet life with God, a complete realisation of the Saviour’s loving

nature, and the great sufferings which he took upon himself for love’s

sake. Oh, even suffering and bleeding with the Most High were rich in

mysterious delight! Aye, no earthly happiness could compare with the

blissful feeling left by those hours of pious ecstasy.

Often she had sat with closed eyes for a long time, dreaming that she

was in the kingdom of heaven and, herself an angel, dwelt with angels.

How often she had wondered whether earthly love could bestow greater

joy than such a happy dream, or the walks through the garden and forest,

during which the abbess told her of St. Francis of Assisi, who founded

her order, the best and most warmhearted among the successors of Christ,

of whom the Pope himself said that he would hear even those whom God

would not! Moreover, there was no plant, no flower, no cry of any animal

in the woods which was not familiar to the Abbess Kunigunde. Like St.

Francis; she distinguished in everything which the ear heard and the

eye beheld voices that bore witness to the goodness and greatness of the

Most High. The abbess felt bound by ties of sisterly affection to every

one of God’s creatures, and taught Eva to love them, too, and, as a

person who treats a child kindly wins the mother’s heart also, to obtain

by love of his creatures that of the Creator.

Others had blamed her because she held aloof from her sister’s friends

and amusements. They were ignorant of the joys of solitude, which her

aunt and her saint had taught her to know.

She had endured interruptions and reproaches, often humbly, oftener

still, when her hot blood swept away her self-control, with vehement

indignation and tears; but meanwhile she had always cherished the secret

thought that the time would come when she, too, would be permitted, at

one with God and the Saviour, to enjoy the raptures of eternal bliss.

She loved her invalid mother and, often as his sudden fits of passion

alarmed her, she was tenderly attached to her father; yet it would have

seemed to her an exquisite delight to be permitted to imitate the saints

and sever all bonds which united her to the world and its clogging

demands. She had long been yearning for the day when she would be

allowed to entreat the abbess to grant her admittance to the convent,

whose doors would be flung wide open for her because, next to the

brothers Ebner, who founded it, her parents had contributed the largest

sum for its support.

But she was obliged to wait patiently, for Els, her older sister, would

probably soon marry her Wolff, and then it would be her turn to nurse

her invalid mother. Her own heart dictated this, and the abbess had

said: “Let her enter eternity clasping your hand before you begin, with

us, to devote all your strength to securing your own salvation. Besides,

you will thereby ascend a long row of steps nearer to your sublime

goal.”

But Eva would far rather have given her hand now, aloof from the world,

to the Most High in an inviolable bond. What marvel that, with such a

goal in view, she was deeply reluctant to enter the gay whirl of a noisy

ball!

With serious repugnance she had allowed Katterle and her sister to adorn

her, and entered the sedan chair which was to convey her to the Town

Hall. Doubtless her own image, reflected in the mirror, had seemed

charming enough, and the loud expressions of delight from the servants

and others who admired her rich costume had pleased her; but directly

after she realized the vanity of this emotion and, while approaching the

ballroom in her chair, she prayed to her saint to help her conquer it.

Striving honestly to vanquish this error, she entered the hall soon

after the Emperor and his young daughter-in-law; but there she was

greeted from the balcony occupied by the city pipers and musicians,

long before Biberli entered it, with the same fanfare that welcomed the

illustrious guests of the city, and with which blended the blare of

the heralds’ trumpets. Thousands of candles in the chandeliers and

candelabra diffused a radiance as brilliant as that of day and, confused

by the noise and waves of light which surged around her, she had drawn

closer to her father, clinging to him for protection. She especially

missed her sister, with whom she had grown up, who had become her second

self, and whom she needed most when she emerged from her quiet life of

introspection into the gay world.

At first she had stood with downcast lashes, but soon her eyes wandered

over the waving plumes and flashing jewels, the splendour of silk and

velvet, the glitter of gold and glimmer of pearls.

Sometimes the display in church had been scarcely less brilliant, and

even without her sister’s request she had gazed at it, but how entirely

different it was! There she had rejoiced in her own modest garb, and

told herself that her simplicity was more pleasing to God and the saints

than the vain splendour of the others, which she might so easily have

imitated or even surpassed. But here the anxious question of how she

appeared among the rest of the company forced itself upon her.

True, she knew that the brocade suckenie, which her father had ordered

from Milan, was costly; that the sea-green hue of the right side

harmonised admirably with the white on the left; that the tendrils and

lilies of the valley wrought in silver, which seemed to be scattered

over the whole, looked light and airy; yet she could not shake off the

feeling that everything she wore was in disorder--here something was

pulled awry, there something was crushed. Els, who had attended to

her whole toilet, was not there to arrange it, and she felt thoroughly

uncomfortable in the midst of this worldly magnificence and bustle.

Notwithstanding her father’s presence, she had never been so desolate as

among these ladies and gentlemen, nearly all of whom were strangers.

Her sister was intimate with the other girls of her age and station,

few of whom were absent, and if Eva could have conjured her to her side

doubtless many would have joined them; but she knew no one well, and

though many greeted her, no one lingered. Everybody had friends with

whom they were on far more familiar terms. The young Countess von

Montfort, a girl of her own age and an inmate of her own home, also gave

her only a passing word. But this was agreeable to her--she disliked

Cordula’s free manners.

Many who were friends of Els had gathered around Ursula Vorchtel, the

daughter of the richest man in the city, and she intentionally avoided

the Ortliebs because, before Wolff Eysvogel sued for Els’s hand, he and

Ursula had been intended for each other.

Eva was just secretly vowing that this first ball should also be

the last, when the imperial magistrate, Herr Berthold Pfinzing, her

godfather, came to present her to the Emperor, who had requested to see

the little daughter of the Herr Ernst Ortlieb whose son had fallen in

battle for him. His “little saint,” Herr Pfinzing added, looked no

less lovely amid the gay music of the Nuremberg pipers than kneeling in

prayer amid the notes of the organ.

Every tinge of colour had faded from Eva’s cheeks, and though a few

hours before she had asked her sister what the Emperor’s greatness

signified in the presence of God that she should be forced, for his

sake, to be faithless to the holiest things, now fear of the majesty of

the powerful sovereign made her breath come quicker.

How, clinging to her godfather’s hand, she reached the Emperor Rudolph’s

throne she could never describe, for what happened afterwards resembled

a confused dream of mingled bliss and pain, from which she was first

awakened by her father’s warning that the time of departure had come.

When she raised her downcast eyes the monarch was standing before the

throne placed for him. She had been compelled to bend her head backward

in order to see his face, for his figure, seven feet in height, towered

like a statue of Roland above all who surrounded him. But when, after

the Austrian duchess, his daughter-in-law, who was scarcely beyond

childhood, and the Burgrave von Zollern, his sister, had graciously

greeted her, and Eva with modest thanks had also bowed low before the

Emperor Rudolph, a smile, spite of her timidity, flitted over her lips,

for as she bent the knee her head barely reached above his belt. The

Burgravine, a vivacious matron, must have noticed it, for she beckoned

to her, and with a few kind words mentioned the name of the young knight

who stood behind her, between her own seat and that of the young Duchess

Agnes of Austria, and recommended him as an excellent dancer. Heinz

Schorlin, the master of the true and steadfast Biberli, had bowed

courteously, and answered respectfully that he hoped he should not prove

himself unworthy of praise from such lips.

Meanwhile his glance met Eva’s, and the Burgravine probably perceived

with what, ardent admiration the knight’s gaze rested on the young

Nuremberg beauty, for she had scarcely stepped back after the farewell

greeting when the noble lady said in a low tone, but loud enough for

Eva’s quick ear to catch the words, “Methinks yonder maiden will do well

to guard her little heart this evening against you, you unruly fellow!

What a sweet, angelic face!”

Eva’s cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure at such words

from such lips, and she would have been only too glad to hear what the

knight whispered to the noble lady.

The attention of the young Duchess Agnes, daughter of King Ottocar of

Bohemia and wife of the Emperor’s third son, who also bore the name of

Rudolph, had been claimed during this incident by the Duke of Nassau,

who had presented his ladies to her, but they had scarcely retired when

she beckoned to Heinz Schorlin, and while talking with him gazed into

his eyes with such warm, childlike pleasure that Eva was incensed; she

thought it unseemly for a wife and a duchess to be on such familiar

terms with a simple knight. Nay, her disapproval of the princess’s

conduct must have been very deep, for during the whole time of her

conversation with the knight there was a loud singing in the young

girl’s ears. The Bohemian’s face might be considered pretty; her dark

eyes sparkled brightly, animating the immature features, now slightly

sunburnt; and although four years younger than Eva, her figure, though

not above middle height, was well developed and, in spite of its

flexibility, aristocratic in bearing. While conversing with Heinz

Schorlin she seemed joyously excited, unrestrainedly cordial, but her

manner expressed disappointment and royal hauteur as another group of

ladies and gentlemen came forward to be presented, compelling her

to turn her back upon the young Swiss with a regretful shrug of her

shoulders.

The counts and countesses, knights and ladies who thronged around her

concealed her from Eva’s eyes, who, now that Heinz Schorlin had left the

Bohemian, again turned her attention to the Emperor, and even ventured

to approach him. What paternal gentleness Rudolph’s deep tones

expressed! How much his face attracted her!

True, it could make no pretensions to beauty--the thin, hooked nose was

far too large and long; the corners of the mouth drooped downward too

much; perhaps it was this latter peculiarity which gave the whole face

so sorrowful an aspect. Eva thought she knew its source. The wound dealt

a few months before by the death of his faithful wife, the love of his

youth, still ached. His eyes could not be called either large or bright;

but how kindly, how earnest, shrewd and, when an amusing thought passed

through his mind, how mischievous they could look! His light-brown hair

had not yet turned very grey, spite of his sixty-three years, but the

locks had lost their luxuriance and fell straight, except for a slight

curl at the lower ends, below his neck.

Eva’s father, when a young man, had met Frederic II, of the Hohenstaufen

line, in Italy, and was wont to call this a special boon of fate. True,

her aunt, the abbess, said she did not envy him the honour of meeting

the Antichrist; yet that very day after mass she had counselled Eva to

impress the Emperor Rudolph’s appearance on her memory. To meet noble

great men elevates our hearts and makes us better, because in their

presence we become conscious of our own insignificance and the duty of

emulating them. She would willingly have given more than a year of her

life to be permitted to gaze into the pure, loving countenance of St.

Francis, who had closed his eyes seven years after her birth.

So Eva, who was accustomed to render strict obedience to her honoured

aunt, honestly strove to watch every movement of the Emperor; but her

attention had been continually diverted, mainly by the young knight,

from whom--the Emperor’s sister, Burgravine Elizabeth, had said so

herself--danger threatened her heart.

But the young Countess Cordula von Montfort, the inmate of her home,

also compelled her to gaze after her, for Heinz Schorlin had approached

the vivacious native of the Vorarlberg, and the freedom with which she

treated him--allowing herself to go so far as to tap him on the arm with

her fan--vexed and offended her like an insult offered to her whole sex.

To think that a girl of high station should venture upon such conduct

before the eyes of the Emperor and his sister!

Not for the world would she have permitted any man to talk and laugh

with her in such a way. But the young knight whom she saw do this was

again the Swiss. Yet his bright eyes had just rested upon her with such

devout admiration that lack of respect for a lady was certainly not in

his nature, and he merely found himself compelled, contrary to his wish,

to defend himself against the countess and her audacity.

Eva had already heard much praise of the great valour of the young

knight Heinz Schorlin. When Katterle, whose friend and countryman was in

his service, spoke of him--and that happened by no means rarely--she

had always called him a devout knight, and that he was so, in truth, he

showed her plainly enough; for there was fervent devotion in the eyes

which now again sought hers like an humble penitent.

The musicians had just struck up the Polish dance, and probably the

knight, whom the Emperor’s sister had recommended to her for a partner,

wished by this glance to apologise for inviting Countess Cordula von

Montfort instead. Therefore she did not need to avoid the look, and

might obey the impulse of her heart to give him a warning in the

language of the eyes which, though mute, is yet so easily understood.

Hitherto she had been unable to answer him, even by a word, yet she

believed that she was destined to become better acquainted, if only to

show him that his power, of which the Burgravine had spoken, was baffled

when directed against the heart of a pious maiden.

And something must also attract him to her, for while she had the honour

of being escorted up and down the hall by one of the handsome sons of

the Burgrave von Zollern to the music of the march performed by the city

pipers, Heinz Schorlin, it is true, did the same with his lady, but he

looked away from her and at Eva whenever she passed him.

Her partner was talkative enough, and his description of the German

order which he expected to enter, as his two brothers had already done,

would have seemed to her well worthy of attention at any other time, but

now she listened with but partial interest.

When the dance was over and Sir Heinz approached, her heart beat so

loudly that she fancied her neighbours must hear it; but ere he had

spoken a single word old Burgrave Frederick himself greeted her,

inquired about her invalid mother, her blithe sister, and her aunt, the

abbess, who in her youth had been the queen of every dance, and asked if

she found his son a satisfactory partner.

It was an unusual distinction to be engaged in conversation by this

distinguished gentleman, yet Eva would fain have sent him far away, and

her replies must have sounded monosyllabic enough; but the sweet shyness

that overpowered her so well suited the modest young girl, who had

scarcely passed beyond childhood, that he did not leave her until the

‘Rai’ began, and then quitted her with the entreaty that she would

remove the cap which had hitherto rendered her invisible, to the injury

of knights and gentlemen, and be present at the dance which he should

soon give at the castle.

The pleasant old nobleman had scarcely left her when she turned towards

the young man who had just approached with the evident intention of

leading her to the dance, but he was again standing beside Cordula von

Montfort, and a feeling of keen resentment overpowered her.

The young countess was challenging his attention still more boldly,

tossing her head back so impetuously that the turban-like roll on her

hair, spite of the broad ribbon that fastened it under her chin, almost

fell on the floor. But her advances not only produced no effect, but

seemed to annoy the knight. What charm could he find in a girl who, in

a costume which displayed the greatest extreme of fashion, resembled

a Turk rather than a Christian woman? True, she had an aristocratic

bearing, and perhaps Els was right in saying that her strongly marked

features revealed a certain degree of kindliness, but she wholly lacked

the spell of feminine modesty. Her pleasant grey eyes and full red lips

seemed created only for laughter, and the plump outlines of her figure

were better suited to a matron than a maiden in her early girlhood. Not

the slightest defect escaped Eva during this inspection. Meanwhile she

remembered her own image in the mirror, and a smile of satisfaction

hovered round her red lips.

Now the knight bowed.

Was he inviting the countess to dance again? No, he turned his back to

her and approached Eva, whose lovely, childlike face brightened as if a

sun beam had shone upon it. The possibility of refusing her hand for the

‘Rai’ never entered her head, but he told her voluntarily that he had

invited Countess Cordula for the Polish dance solely in consequence of

the Burgravine’s command, but now that he was permitted to linger at her

side he meant to make up for lost time.

He kept his word, and was by no means content with the ‘Rai’; for, after

the young Duchess Agnes had summoned him to a ‘Zauner’, and during

its continuance again talked with him far more confidentially than

the modest Nuremberg maiden could approve, he persuaded Eva to try

the ‘Schwabeln’ with him also; and though she had always disliked such

dances she yielded, and her natural grace, as well as her quick ear for

time, helped her to catch the unfamiliar steps without difficulty.

While doing so he whispered that even the angels in heaven could have

no greater bliss than it afforded him to float thus through the hall,

clasping her in his arm, while she glanced up at him with a happy look

and bent her little head in assent. She would gladly have exclaimed

warmly: “Yes, indeed! Yet the Burgravine says that danger threatens me

from you, you dear, kind fellow, and I should do well to avoid you.”

Besides, she felt indebted to him. What would have befallen her here in

his absence! Moreover, it gave her a strange sense of pleasure to gaze

into his eyes, allow herself to be borne through the wide hall by his

strong arm, and while pressed closely to his side imagine that his

swiftly throbbing heart felt the pulsing of her own. Instead of injuring

her, wishing her evil, and asking her to do anything wrong, he certainly

had only good intentions. He had cared for her as if he occupied the

place of her own brother who fell in the battle of Marchfield. It

would have given him most pleasure--he had said so himself--to dance

everything with her, but decorum and the royal dames who kept him in

attendance would not permit it. However, he came to her in every pause

to exchange at least a few brief words and a glance. During the longest

one, which lasted more than an hour and was devoted to the refreshment

of the guests, he led her into a side room which had been transformed

into a blossoming garden.

Seats were placed behind the green birch trees--amid whose boughs hung

gay lamps--and the rose bushes which surrounded a fountain of perfumed

water, and Eva had already followed the Swiss knight across the

threshold when she saw among the branches at the end of the room the

Countess Cordula, at whose feet several young nobles knelt or reclined,

among them Seitz Siebenburg, the brother-in-law of Wolff Eysvogel, her

sister’s betrothed bridegroom.

The manner of the husband and father whose wife, only six weeks before,

had become the mother of twin babies--beautiful boys--and who for

Cordula’s sake so shamefully forgot his duties, crimsoned her cheeks

with a flush of anger, while the half-disapproving, half-troubled look

that Sir Boemund Altrosen cast, sometimes at the countess, sometimes

at Siebenburg, showed her that she herself was on the eve of doing

something which the best persons could not approve; for Altrosen, who

leaned silently against the wall beside the countess, ever and anon

pushing back the coal-black hair from his pale face, had been mentioned

by her godfather as the noblest of the younger knights gathered in

Nuremberg. A voice in her own heart, too, cried out that this was no

fitting place for her.

If Els had been with her, Eva said to herself, she certainly would

not have permitted her to enter this room, where such careless mirth

prevailed, alone with a knight, and the thought roused her for a short

time from the joyous intoxication in which she had hitherto revelled,

and awakened a suspicion that there might be peril in trusting herself

to Heinz Schorlin without reserve.

“Not here,” she entreated, and he instantly obeyed her wish, though the

Countess Cordula, as if he were alone, instead of with a lady, loudly

and gaily bade him stay where pleasure had built a hut under roses.

Eva was pleased that her new friend did not even vouchsafe the young

countess an answer. His obedience led her also to believe that her

anxiety had been in vain. Yet she imposed greater reserve of manner

upon herself so rigidly that Heinz noticed it, and asked what cloud had

dimmed the pure radiance of her gracious sunshine.

Eva lowered her eyes and answered gently: “You ought not to have taken

me where the diffidence due to modesty is forgotten.” Heinz Schorlin

understood her and rejoiced to hear the answer. In his eyes, also,

Countess Cordula this evening had exceeded the limits even of the

liberty which by common consent she was permitted above others. He

believed that he had found in Eva the embodiment of pure and beautiful

womanhood.

He had given her his heart from the first moment that their eyes met. To

find her in every respect exactly what he had imagined, ere he heard a

single word from her lips, enhanced the pleasure he felt to the deepest

happiness which he had ever experienced.

He had already been fired with a fleeting fancy for many a maiden, but

not one had appeared to him, even in a remote degree, so lovable as this

graceful young creature who trusted him with such childlike confidence,

and whose innocent security by the side of the dreaded heart-breaker

touched him.

Never before had it entered his mind concerning any girl to ask himself

the question how she would please his mother at home. The thought that

she whom he so deeply honoured might possess a magic mirror which showed

her her reckless son as he dallied with the complaisant beauties

whose graciousness, next to dice-playing, most inflamed his blood, had

sometimes disturbed his peace of mind when Biberli suggested it. But

when Eva looked joyously up at him with the credulous confidence of

a trusting child, he could imagine no greater bliss than to hear his

mother, clasping the lovely creature in her arms, call her her dear

little daughter.

His reckless nature was subdued, and an emotion of tenderness which he

had never experienced before thrilled him as she whispered, “Take me to

a place where everybody can see us, but where we need not notice anyone

else.”

How significant was that little word “we”! It showed that already she

united herself and him in her thoughts. To her pure nature nothing could

be acceptable which must be concealed from the light of the sun and the

eyes of man. And her wish could be fulfilled.

The place where Biberli had discovered them, and where refreshments had

just been served to the Emperor and the ladies and gentlemen nearest to

his person, who had been joined by several princes of the Church, was

shut off by the bannerets, thus preventing the entrance of any uninvited

person; but Heinz Schorlin belonged to the sovereign’s suite and had

admittance everywhere.

So he led Eva behind the black and yellow rope to two vacant chairs

at the end of the enclosed space where the banquet had been swiftly

arranged for the Emperor and the other illustrious guests of Nuremberg.

These seats were in view of the whole company, yet it would have been as

difficult to interrupt him and his lady as any of the table companions

of the imperial pair. Eva followed the knight without anxiety, and took

her place beside him in the well-chosen seat.

A young cup-bearer of noble birth, with whom Heinz was well acquainted,

brought unasked to him and his companion sparkling Malvoisie in Venetian

glasses, and Heinz began the conversation by inviting Eva to drink to

the many days brightened by her favour which, if the saints heard his

prayer, should follow this, the most delightful evening of his life. He

omitted to ask her to pour the wine for him, knowing that many of the

guests in the ballroom were watching them; besides the saucy little

count came again and again to fill his goblet, and he wished to avoid

everything which might elicit sarcastic comment. The young cup-bearer

desisted as soon as he noticed the respectful reserve with which Heinz

treated his lady, and the youth was soon obliged to leave the hall

with his liege lord, Duke Rudolph of Austria, who was to set out for

Carinthia early the following morning, and withdrew with his wife

without sharing the banquet. The latter accompanied her husband to the

castle, but she was to remain in Nuremberg during the session of the

Reichstag with the lonely widowed Emperor, who was especially fond of

the young Bohemian princess. Before and during the dance with Heinz the

latter had requested him to use the noble Arabian steed, a gift from

the Sultan Kalaun to the Emperor, who had bestowed it upon her, and also

expressed the hope of meeting the knight frequently.

In the conversation which Heinz began with Eva he was at first

obliged to defend himself, for she had admitted that she had heard the

Burgravine’s warning to beware of him.

At the same time she had found opportunity to tell him that her heart

yearned for something different from worldly love, and that she felt

safe from every one because St. Clare was constantly watching over her.

He replied that he had been reared in piety, that he knew the close

relations existing between her patron saint and the holy Francis of

Assisi, and that he, too, had experienced many things from this man of

God. Eva, with warm interest, asked when and where, and he willingly

told her.

On the way from Augsburg to Nuremberg, while riding in advance of the

imperial court, he had met an old barefooted man who, exhausted by the

heat of the day, had sunk down by the side of the road as if lifeless,

with his head resting against the trunk of a tree. Moved with

compassion, he dismounted, to try to do something for the greybeard.

A few sips of wine had restored him to consciousness, but his weary,

wounded feet would carry him no farther. Yet it would have grieved the

old man sorely to be forced to interrupt his journey, for the Chapter

General in Portiuncula, in Italy, had sent him with an important message

to the brothers of his order in Germany, and especially in Nuremberg.

The old Minorite monk was especially dignified in aspect, and when he

chanced to mention that he had known St. Francis well and was one of

those who had nursed him during his last illness, a dispute had arisen

between Heinz Schorlin, the armor bearer, and his servant Walther

Biberli, for each desired to give up his saddle to the old man and

pursue his journey on foot for his sake and the praise of God.

But the Minorite could not be persuaded to break his vow never again

to mount a knight’s charger and, even had it not been evident from his

words, Heinz asserted that the aristocratic dignity of his bearing would

have shown that he belonged to a noble race.

Biberli’s eloquence gained the victory in this case also, and though the

groom led by the bridle another young stallion which the ex-schoolmaster

might have mounted, he had walked cheerily beside the old monk, sweeping

up the dust with his long robe. At the tavern the knight and his

attendants had been abundantly repaid for their kindness to the

Minorite, for his conversation was both entertaining and edifying; and

Heinz repeated to his lady, who listened attentively, much that the monk

had related about St. Francis.

Eva, too, was also on the ground dearest and most familiar to her. Her

little tongue ran fast enough, and her large blue eyes sparkled with an

unusually bright and happy lustre as she completed and corrected what

the young knight told her about the saint.

How much that was lovable, benevolent, and wonderful there was to relate

concerning this prophet of peace and good-will, this apostle of poverty

and toil who, in every movement of nature, perceived and felt a summons

to recognise the omnipotence and goodness of God, an invitation to

devout submission to the Most High!

How many amusing, yet edifying and touching anecdotes, the Abbess

Kunigunde had narrated of him and the most beloved of his followers!

Much of this conversation Eva repeated to the knight, and her pleasure

in the subject of the conversation increased the vivacity of her active

mind, and soon led her to talk with eager eloquence. Heinz Schorlin

fairly hung on her lips, and his eyes, which betrayed how deeply all

that he was hearing moved him, rested on hers until a flourish of

trumpets announced that the interval between the dances was over.

He had listened in delight and, he felt, was forever bound to her. When

duty summoned him to attend the Emperor he asked himself whether such a

conversation had ever been held in the midst of a merry dance; whether

God, in his goodness, had ever created a being so perfect in soul and

body as this fair saint, who could transform a ballroom into a church.

Aye, Eva had done so; for, ardent as was the knight’s love, something

akin to religious devotion blended with his yearning desire. The last

words which he addressed to her before leading her back to the others

contained the promise to make her patron saint, St. Clare, his own.

The Princess of Nassau had invited him for the next dance, but she found

Heinz Schorlin, whom the young Duchess Agnes had just said was merry

enough to bring the dead to life, a very quiet partner; while young

Herr Schurstab, who danced with Eva and, like all the members of the

Honourable Council, knew that she desired to take the veil, afterwards

told his friends that the younger beautiful E would suit a Carthusian

convent, where speech is prohibited, much better than a ballroom.

But after this “Zauner” Heinz Schorlin again loosed her tongue. When he

had told her how he came to the court, and she had learned that he had

joined the Emperor Rudolph at Lausanne just as he took the vow to take

part in the crusade, there was no end to her questions concerning

the reason that the German army had not already marched against the

infidels, and whether he himself did not long to make them feel his

sword.

Then she asked still further particulars concerning Brother Benedictus,

the old Minorite whom he had treated so kindly. Heinz told her what he

knew, and when he at last enquired whether she still regretted having

met him whom she feared, she gazed frankly into his eyes and, smiling

faintly, shook her head.

This increased his ardour, and he warmly entreated her to tell him where

he could meet her again, and permit him to call her his lady. But she

hesitated to reply, and ere he could win from her even the faintest

shadow of consent, Ernst Ortlieb, who had been talking with other

members of the council in the room where the wine was served,

interrupted him to take his daughter home.

She went reluctantly. The clasp of the knight’s hand was felt all

the way to the house, and it would have been impossible and certainly

ungracious not to return it.

Heinz Schorlin had obtained no assent, yet the last glance from her eyes

had been more eloquent than many a verbal promise, and he gazed after

her enraptured.

It seemed like desecration to give the hand in which hers had rested to

lead any one else to the dance, and when the rotund Duke of Pomerania

invited him to a drinking bout at his quarters at the Green Shield he

accepted; for without Eva the hall seemed deserted, the light robbed of

its brilliancy, and the gay music transformed to a melancholy dirge.

But when at the Green Shield the ducal wine sparkled in the beakers,

the gold shone and glistened on the tables, and the rattle of the

dice invited the bystanders to the game, he thought that whatever he

undertook on such a day of good fortune must have a lucky end.

The Emperor had filled his purse again, but the friendly gift did not

cover his debts, and he wanted to be rid of them before he told his

mother that he had found a dear, devout daughter for her, and intended

to return home to settle in the ancestral castle, his heritage, and

share with his uncle the maintenance of his rights and the management of

fields and forests.

Besides, he must test for the first time the power of his new patroness,

St. Clare, instead of his old one, St. Leodegar. But the former served

him ill enough--she denied him her aid, at any rate in gambling. The

full purse was drained to its last ‘zecchin’ only too soon, and Heinz,

laughing, turned it inside out before the eyes of his comrades. But

though the kind-hearted Duke of Pomerania, with whom Heinz was a special

favourite, pushed a little heap of gold towards him with his fat hands,

that the Swiss might try his luck again with borrowed money, which

brings good fortune, he remained steadfast for Eva’s sake.

On his way to the Green Shield he had confessed to Biberli--who, torch

in hand, led the way--that he intended very shortly to turn his back

on the court and ride home, because this time he had found the right

chatelaine for his castle.

“That means the last one,” the ex-schoolmaster answered quietly,

carefully avoiding fanning the flame of his young master’s desire by

contradiction. Only he could not refrain from entreating him not to

burn his fingers with the dice, and, to confirm it, added that luck in

gambling was apt to be scanty where fortune was so lavish in the gifts

of love.

Heinz now remembered this warning. It had been predicted to his darling

that meeting him would bring her misfortune, but he was animated by the

sincere determination to force the jewel of his heart to remember Heinz

Schorlin with anything but sorrow and regret.

What would have seemed impossible to him a few hours before, he now

realised. With a steady hand he pushed back the gold to the duke, who

pressed it upon him with friendly glances from his kind little eyes and

an urgent whispered entreaty, and took his leave, saying that to-night

the dice and he were at odds.

With these words he left the room, though the host tried to detain him

almost by force, and the guests also earnestly endeavoured to keep the

pleasant, jovial fellow. The loss, over which Biberli shook his head

angrily, did, not trouble him. Even on his couch Heinz found but a short

time to think of his empty purse and the lovely maid who was to make the

old castle among his beloved Swiss mountains an earthly paradise, for

sleep soon closed his eyes.

The next morning the events of the evening seemed like a dream. Would

that they had been one! Only he would not have missed, at any cost, the

sweet memories associated with Eva. But could she really become his own?

He feared not; for the higher the sun rose the more impracticable his

intentions of the night before appeared. At last he even thought of the

religious conversation in the dancing hall with a superior smile, as

if it had been carried on by some one else. The resolve to ask from her

father the hand of the girl he loved he now rejected. No, he was not yet

fit for a husband and the quiet life in the old castle. Yet Eva should

be the lady of his heart, her patron saint should be his, and he would

never sue for the love of any other maiden. Hers he must secure. To

press even one kiss on her scarlet lips seemed to him worth the risk of

life. When he had stilled this fervent longing he could ride with her

colour on helm and shield from tourney to tourney, and break a lance for

her in every land through which he passed with the Emperor. What would

happen afterwards let the saints decide. As usual, Biberli was his

confidant, and declared himself ready to use Katterle’s services in his

master’s behalf.

He had his own designs in doing this. He could rely upon the waiting

maid’s assistance, and if there were secret meetings between Eva Ortlieb

and his lord, which would appease the knight’s ardour, even in a small

degree, the task of disgusting Heinz with his luckless idea of an early

marriage would not prove too difficult.

CHAPTER IV.

Eva Ortlieb had been borne home from the ball in her sedan chair with a

happy smile hovering round her fresh young lips.

It still lingered there when she found her sister in their chamber,

sitting at the spinning wheel. She had not left her suffering mother

until her eyes closed in slumber, and was now waiting for Eva, to hear

whether the entertainment had proved less disagreeable than she feared,

and--as she had sent her maid to bed--to help her undress.

One glance at Eva told her that she had perhaps left the ballroom even

more reluctantly than she entered it; but when Els questioned her so

affectionately, and with maternal care began to unfasten the ribbon

which tied her cap, the young girl, who in the sedan chair had

determined to confess to no one on earth what so deeply moved her heart,

could not resist the impulse to clasp her in her arms and kiss her with

impetuous warmth.

Els received the caress with surprise for, though both girls loved each

other tenderly, they, like most sisters, rarely expressed it by tangible

proofs of tenderness. Not until Eva released her did Els exclaim in

merry amazement: “So it was delightful, my darling?”

“Oh, so delightful!” Eva protested with hands uplifted, and at the same

time met her sister’s eyes with a radiant glance.

Yet the thought entered her mind that it ill beseemed her to express so

much pleasure in a worldly amusement. Her glance fell in shame, and she

gently continued in that tone of self-compassion which was by no means

unfamiliar to the members of her family. “True, though the Emperor is

so noble, and both he and the Burgravine were so gracious to me, at

first--and not only for a brief quarter of an hour, but a very long

time I could feel no real pleasure. What am I saying? Pleasure! I

was indescribably desolate and alone among all those vain, bedizened

strangers. I was like a shipwrecked sailor washed ashore by the waves

and surrounded by people whose language is unfamiliar.”

“But half Nuremberg was at the ball,” her sister interrupted. “Now you

see the trouble, darling. Whoever, like you, remains in seclusion and

mounts a tall tree to be entirely alone, will be deserted; for who would

be kind-hearted enough to learn to climb for your sake? But it seems

that afterwards one and another----”

“Oh!” Eva interrupted, “if you think that any of your friends gave me

more than a passing greeting, you are mistaken. Not even Barbel, Ann,

or Metz took any special notice of your sister. They kept near Ursel

Vorchtel, and she and her brother Ulrich, of course, behaved as if

I wore a fern cap and had become invisible. I cannot tell you how

uncomfortable I felt, and then--yes, Els, then I first realised

distinctly what you are to me. Obstinate as I often am, in spite of all

your kindness and care, ungraciously as I often treat you, to-night I

clearly perceived that we belong together, like a pair of eyes, and

that without you I am only half myself--or, at any rate--not complete.

And--as we are speaking in images--I felt like a sapling whose prop

has been removed; even your Wolff can never have longed for you more

ardently. My father found little time to give me. As soon as he saw me

take my place in the Polish dance he went with Uncle Pfinzing to the

drinking room, and I did not see him again till he came to bring me

home. He had asked Fran Nutzel to look after me, but her Kathrin was

taken ill, as I heard when we were leaving, and she disappeared with

her during the first dance. So I moved forlornly here and there until

he--Heinz Schorlin--came and took charge of me.”

“He? Sir Heinz Schorlin?” asked Els in surprise, a look of anxious

suspense clouding her pretty, frank face. “The reckless Swiss, whom

Countess Cordula said yesterday was the pike in the dull carp pond of

the court, and the only person for whom it was worth while to bear the

penance imposed in the confessional?”

“Cordula von Montfort!” cried Eva scornfully. “If she speaks to me I

shall not answer her, I can tell you. My cheeks crimson when I think of

the liberty----”

“Never mind her,” said her sister soothingly. “She is a motherless

child, and therefore unlike us. As for Heinz Schorlin, he is certainly a

gallant knight; but, my innocent lambkin, he is a wolf nevertheless.”

“A wolf?” asked Eva, opening her large eyes as wide as if they beheld

some terrible object. But she soon laughed softly, and added quietly:

“But a very harmless wolf, who humbly changes his nature when the right

hand strokes him. How you stare at me! I am not thinking of your beloved

Wolff, whom you have tamed tolerably well, but the wolf of Gubbio, which

did so much mischief, and to which St. Francis went forth, accosted him

as Brother Wolf, and reminded him that they both owed their lives to

the goodness of the same divine Father. The animal seemed to understand

this, for it nodded to him. The saint now made a bargain with the wolf,

which gave him its paw in pledge of the oath; and it kept the promise,

for it followed St. Francis into the city, and never again harmed

anyone. The citizens of Gubbio fed the good beast, and when it died

sincerely mourned it. If you wish to know from whom I heard this

edifying story--which is true, and can be confirmed by some one now in

Nuremberg who witnessed it--let me tell you that it was the wicked wolf

himself; not the Gubbio one, but he from Switzerland. An old Minorite

monk, to whom he compassionately gave his horse, is the witness I

mentioned. At the tavern the priest told him what he had beheld with his

own eyes. Do you still inveigh against the dangerous beast, which acts

like the good Samaritan, and finds nothing more delightful than hearing

or speaking of our dear saint?”

“And this in the Town Hall during the dance?” asked Els, clasping her

hands as if she had heard something unprecedented.

Eva, fairly radiant with joy, nodded assent; and Els heard the ring of

pleasure in her clear voice, too, as she exclaimed: “That was just what

made the ball so delightful. The dancing! Oh, yes, it is easy enough

to walk and turn in time to the music when one has such a knight for a

partner; but that was by no means the pleasantest part of it. During the

interval--it seemed but an instant, yet it really lasted a considerable

time--we first entered into conversation.”

“In one of the side rooms?” asked Els, the bright colour fading from her

cheeks.

“What are you thinking of?” replied Eva in a tone of offence. “I believe

I know what is seemly as well as anybody else. True, your Countess

Cordula did not set the most praiseworthy example. She allowed the whole

throng of knights to surround her in the ante-room, and your future

brother-in-law, Siebenburg, outdid them all. We--Heinz Schorlin and

I--sat near the Emperor’s table in the great hall, where everybody could

see us. There the conversation naturally passed from the old Minorite to

the holy founder of his order, and remained there. And if ever valiant

knight possessed a devout mind, it is Heinz Schorlin. Whoever goes into

battle without relying upon God and his saints,’ he said, ‘will find his

courage lack wings, and his armour the surest defensive ‘weapon.’”

“In the ballroom!” again fell from her sister’s lips in the same tone of

amazement.

“Where else?” asked Eva angrily. “I never met him except there. What do

you other girls talk about at such entertainments, if it surprises you?

Besides, St. Francis was by no means our only subject; we spoke of the

future crusade, too. And oh!--you may believe me--we would have been

glad to talk of such things for hours. He knew many things about our

saint; but the precise one which makes him especially great and lovable,

and withal so powerful that he attracted all whom he deemed worthy to

follow him, he had not understood, and I was permitted to be the first

person to bring it clearly before his mind. Ah! and his wit is as keen

as his sword, and his heart is as open to all that is noble and sacred

as it is loyal to his lord and Emperor. If we meet again I shall win

him for the white cross on the black mantle and the battle against the

enemies of the faith.”

“But, Eva,” interrupted her sister, still under the spell of

astonishment, “such conversation amid the merry music of the pipers!”

“‘Wherever three Christians meet, even though they are only laymen,

there is a church,’ says Tertullian,” Eva answered impressively. “One

need not go to the house of God to talk about the things which ought to

be the highest and dearest to every one; and Heinz Schorlin--I know it

from his own lips--is of the same opinion, for he told me voluntarily

that he would never forget the few hours which we had enjoyed together.”

“Indeed!” said her sister thoughtfully. “But whether he does not owe

this pleasure more to the dancing than to the edifying conversation----”

“Certainly not!” replied Eva, very positively. “I can prove it, too;

for later, after he had heard many things about St. Clare, the female

counterpart of Francis, he vowed to make her his patron saint. Or do

you suppose that a knight changes his saints, as he does his doublet and

coat of mail, without having any great and powerful motive? Do you think

it possible that the idle pleasure of the dance led him to so important

a decision?”

“Certainly not. Nothing led him to it except the irresistible zeal of my

devout sister,” answered Els, smiling, as she continued to comb her fair

hair. “She spoke with tongues in the ballroom, as the apostles did at

Pentecost, and thus our ‘little saint’ performed her first miracle: the

conversion of a godless knight during the dancing.”

“Call it so, if you choose,” replied Eva, her red lips pouting

scornfully, as if she felt raised above such pitiful derision. “How you

hurt, Els! You are pulling all the hair out of my head!”

The object of this rebuke had used the comb with the utmost care, but

the great luxuriance of the long, fair, waving locks had presented

many an impediment, and Eva seemed unusually sensitive that night. Els

thought she knew why, and made no answer to the unjust charge. She knew

her sister; and as she wound the braids about her head, and then, in the

maid’s place, hung part of her finery on hooks, and laid part carefully

in the chest, she asked her numerous questions about the dance, but was

vouchsafed only monosyllabic replies.

At last Els knelt before the prie-dieu. Eva did the same, resting her

head so long upon her clasped hands that the patient older sister could

not wait for the “Amen,” but, in order not to disturb Eva’s devotion,

only pressed a light kiss upon her head and then carefully drew the

curtains closely over the windows which, instead of glass, contained

oiled parchment.

Eva’s excitement filled her with anxiety. She knew, too, what a powerful

influence the bright moonlight sometimes exerted upon her while she

slept, and cast another glance at the closely curtained window before

she went to her own bed. There she lay a long time, with eyes wide open,

pondering over her sister’s words, and in doing so perceived more

and more clearly that love was now knocking at the heart of the child

kneeling before the prie-dieu. Sir Heinz Schorlin, the wild butterfly,

desired to sip the honey from this sweet, untouched flower, and then

probably abandon her like so many before her. Love and anxiety made the

girl, whose opinion was usually milder than her sister’s, a stern and

unwise judge, for she assumed that the Swiss--whose character in reality

was far removed from base hypocrisy--the man whom she had just termed

a wolf, had donned sheep’s clothing to make her poor lambkin an easier

prey. But she was on guard and ready to spoil his game.

Did Eva really fail to understand the new feeling which had seized her

so swiftly and powerfully? Did she lull herself in the delusion that she

cared only for the welfare of the soul of the pious young knight?

Yes, it might be so, and prudent Els, who had watched her own little

world intently enough, said to herself that it would be pouring oil upon

the flames to tease Eva about the defeat which she, the “little saint,”

had sustained in the battle against the demands of the world and of the

feminine heart. Besides, her sister was too dear for her to rejoice in

her humiliation. Els resolved not to utter a word about the Swiss unless

compelled to do so.

Eva’s prayers before retiring were often very long, but to-night it

seemed as if they would never end.

“She is not appealing to St. Clare for herself alone, but for another,”

thought Els. “I spend less time in doing it. True, a Heinz Schorlin

needs longer intercession than my Eva, my Wolff, and my poor pious

mother. But I won’t disturb her yet.”

Sighing faintly, she changed her position, but remained sitting propped

against the white pillows in order not to allow herself to be overcome

by sleep. But it was a hard struggle, and her lids often fell, her head

drooped upon her breast.

Dawn was already glimmering without when the supplicant at last rose and

sought her couch. Her sister let her lie quietly for a while, then she

rose and put out the lamp which Eva had forgotten to extinguish. The

latter noticed it, turned her face towards her and called her gently.

“To think that you should have to get up again, my poor Els! Give me a

good-night kiss.”

“Gladly, dearest,” replied the other. “But it is really quite time to

say ‘good-morning.”’

“And you have kept awake so long!” replied Eva compassionately, as she

threw her arms gratefully around her sister’s neck, kissed her tenderly,

and then pressed her hot cheek to hers.

“What is this?” cried Els, with sincere anxiety. “Are you hurt, child?

Surely you are weeping?”

“No, no,” was the reply. “I am only--I only thought that I had adorned

myself, decked myself out with idle finery, although I know how many

poor people are starving in want and misery, and how much more pleasing

in the sight of the Lord is the grey robe of the cloistered nun. I could

scarcely leave the hall in my overweening pleasure, and yet it would

have beseemed me far better to share the sufferings of the crucified

Saviour.”

“But, child,” replied Els, striving to soothe her sister, “how often

I have heard from you and our aunt, the abbess, that no one was so

cheerful and so glad to witness the enjoyment of human beings and

animals as your St. Francis!”

“He--he!” groaned Eva, “he who attained the highest goal, who heard

the voice of the Lord wherever he listened; he who chose poverty as his

beloved bride, who scorned show and parade and the trappings of wealth,

as he disdained earthly love; he who celebrated in song the love of the

soul glowing for the highest things, as no troubadour could do--oh, how

ardently he knew how to love, but to love the things which do not belong

to this world!”

Els longed to ask what Eva knew about the ardent fire of love; but

she restrained herself, darkened the bed as well as she could with the

movable curtain which hung from the ceiling on both sides above

the double couch, and said: “Be sensible, child, and put aside such

thoughts. How loudly the birds are twittering outside! If our father is

obliged to breakfast alone there may be a storm, and I should be glad

to have an hour’s nap. You need slumber, too. Dancing is tiresome. Shut

your eyes and sleep as long as you can. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse

while I am dressing.”

As she spoke she turned away from her sister and no longer resisted the

sleep which soon closed her weary eyes.

CHAPTER V.

As her father had ordered the servants not to disturb the young girls,

Els did not wake till the sun was high in the heavens. Eva’s place at

her side was empty. She had already left the room. For the first time

it had been impossible to sleep even a few short moments, and when she

heard from the neighbouring cloister the ringing of the little bell that

summoned the nuns to prayers, she could stay in bed no longer.

Usually she liked to dress slowly, thinking meanwhile of many things

which stirred her soul. Sometimes while the maid or Els braided her hair

she could read a book of devotion which the abbess had given her. But

this morning she had carried the clothes she needed into the next room

on tiptoe, that she might not wake her sister, and urged Katterle, who

helped her dress, to hurry.

She longed to see her aunt at the convent. While kneeling at the

prie-dieu, she had reached the certainty that her patron saint had led

Heinz Schorlin to her. He was her knight and she his lady, so he must

render her obedience, and she would use it to estrange him from the

vanity of the world and make him a champion of the holy cause of the

Church of Christ, the victorious conqueror of her foes. Sky-blue, the

Holy Virgin’s colour, should be hers, and thus his also, and every

victory gained by the knight with the sky-blue on his helmet, under St.

Clare’s protection, would then be hers.

Heinz Schorlin was already one of the boldest and strongest knights; her

love must render him also one of the most godly. Yes, her love! If St.

Francis had not disdained to make a wolf his brother, why might she not

feel herself the loving sister of a youth who would obey her as a noble

falcon did his mistress, and whom she would teach to pursue the right

quarry? The abbess would not forbid such love, and the impulse that

drew her so strongly to the convent was the longing to know how her aunt

would receive her confession.

The night before when, after her conversation with Els, she began to

pray, she had feared that she had fallen into the snare of earthly love,

and dreaded the confession which she had to make to her aunt Kunigunde.

Now she found that it was no fleshly bond which united her to the

knight. Oh, no! As St. Francis had gone forth to console, to win souls

for the Lord, to bring peace and exhort to earnest labour in the service

of the Saviour, as his disciples had imitated him, and St. Clare had

been untiring in working, in his spirit, among women, she, too, would

obey the call which had come to her saint in Portiuncula, and prove

herself for the first time, according to the Scripture, “a fisher of

souls.”

Now she gladly anticipated the meeting; for though her sister did not

understand her, the abbess must know how to sympathise with what was

passing in her mind. This expectation was fulfilled; for as soon as

she was alone with her aunt she poured forth all her hopes and feelings

without reserve, eagerly and joyfully extolling her good fortune that,

through St. Clare, she had been enabled to find the noblest and most

valiant knight, that she might win him for the Holy War under her

saint’s protection and to her honour.

The abbess, who knew women’s hearts, had at first felt the same fear

as Els; but she soon changed her opinion, and thought that she might be

permitted to rejoice over the new emotion in her darling’s breast.

No girl in love talked so openly and joyously of the conquest won, least

of all would her truthful, excitable niece, whom she had drawn into her

own path, speak thus of the man who disturbed her repose. No sensitive

girl, unfamiliar with the world and scarcely beyond childhood, would

decide with such steadfast firmness, so wholly free from every selfish

wish, the future of the man dearest to her heart. No, no! Eva had

already attained her new birth, and was not to be compared with other

girls She had already once reached that ecstatic rapture which followed

only a long absorption in God and an active sympathy with the deep human

love of the Saviour and the unspeakable sufferings which he had taken

upon himself. Little was to be feared from earthly love for one who

devoted herself with all the passion of her fervid nature to the divine

Bridegroom. Among the many whom Kunigunde received into the convent as

novices, she was most certainly “called.” If she felt something which

resembled love for the young knight--and she made no concealment of

it--it was only the result of the sweet joy of winning for the Lord, the

faith, and her saint a soul which seemed to her worthy of such grace.

Dear, highly gifted child!

She, the abbess Kunigunde, was willing it should be so, and that Eva

should surpass herself. She should prove that genuine piety conquers

even the yearning of a quickly throbbing heart.

True, she must keep her eyes open in order to prevent Satan, who is

everywhere on the watch, from mingling in a game not wholly free from

peril. But, on the other hand, the abbess intended to help her beloved

niece to reap the reward of her piety.

It was scarcely to be doubted that Heinz Schorlin was fired with ardent

love for Eva; but, for that very reason, he would be ready to yield her

obedience, and therefore it was advisable to tell her exactly to what

she must persuade him. She must win him to join the Order of Malta, and

if the famous champion of Marchfield performed heroic deeds with the

white cross on his black mantle, or in war on his red tunic, he, the

Emperor’s favourite, would be sure of a high position among the military

members of the order.

The young girl listened eagerly, but the elderly abbess herself became

excited while encouraging the young future “Sister” to her noble task.

The days when, with the inmates of the convent, she had prayed that the

Emperor Rudolph might fulfil the Pope’s desire, and in a new crusade

again wrest the Holy Land from the infidels, came back to her memory,

and Heinz Schorlin, guided by the nuns of St. Clare, seemed the man to

bring the fulfilment of this old and cherished wish.

It appeared like a leading of the saints and a sign from God that Heinz

had been dubbed a knight, and commenced his glorious career at Lausanne

while the Emperor Rudolph pledged himself to a new crusade.

She detained Eva so long that dinner was over at the Ortlieb mansion,

and her impatient father would have sent for her had not the invalid

mother urged him to let her remain.

True, she longed to have a talk with her darling, who for the first time

in her life had attended a great entertainment, and doubtless it grieved

her to think that Eva did not feel the necessity of pouring out her

heart to her own mother rather than to any one else, and sharing with

her all the new emotions which undoubtedly had thrilled it; but she knew

her child, and would have considered it selfish to place any obstacle in

the pathway to eternal salvation of the elect whom God summoned with so

loud a voice. Formerly she would rather have seen the young girl, whose

charms were developing into such rare beauty, wedded to some good man;

but now she rejoiced in the idea that Eva was summoned to rule over the

nuns in the neighbouring cloister some day as abbess, in the place of

her sister-in-law Kunigunde. Her own days, she knew, were numbered, but

where could her child more surely find the happiness she desired for

her than with the beloved sisters of St. Clare, whose home she and her

husband had helped to build?

Els had concealed from her parents what she fancied she had discovered,

for any anxiety injured the invalid, and no one could anticipate how her

irritable father might receive the information of her fear. On the

other hand, she could confide her troubles without anxiety to Wolff, her

betrothed husband. He was wise, prudent, loved Eva like a sister, and in

exchanging thoughts with him she always discovered the right course to

pursue; but though she expected him so eagerly and confidently, he did

not come.

When, in the afternoon, Eva returned home, her whole manner expressed

such firm, cheerful composure that Els began to hope she might have been

mistaken. The undemonstrative yet tender affection with which she met

her mother, too, by no means harmonised with her fears.

How lovely the young girl looked as she sat on a low stool at the head

of the invalid’s couch and, with her mother’s emaciated hand clasped in

hers, told her all that she had seen and experienced the evening before!

To please the beloved sufferer, she dwelt longer on the description of

the gracious manner of the Emperor Rudolph and his sister to her and her

father, the conversation with which the Burgrave had honoured her, and

his son’s invitation to dance. Then for the first time she mentioned

Heinz Schorlin, whom she had found a godly knight, and finally spoke

briefly of the distinguished foreign nobles and ladies whom he had

pointed out and named.

All this reminded the mother of former days and, in spite of the warning

of watchful Els not to talk too much, she did not cease questioning or

recalling the time when she herself attended such festivals, and as one

of the fairest maidens received much homage.

It had been a good day, for it was long since she had enjoyed so much

quiet in her own home. The von Montforts, she told Eva, had set

off early, with a great train of knights and servants, to ride to

Radolzburg, the castle of the Burgrave von Zollern. Her father thought

they would probably have a dance there, for the young sons of the

Burgrave would act as hosts.

Eva asked carelessly who rode with Cordula this time to submit to her

whims, but Els perceived by her sister’s flushed cheeks and the tone of

her voice what she desired to know, and answered as if by accident that

Sir Heinz Schorlin certainly was not one of her companions, for he had

ridden through the Frauenthor that afternoon in the train of the Emperor

Rudolph and his Bohemian daughter-in-law.

Twilight was already beginning to gather, and Els could not see whether

this news afforded Eva pleasure or annoyance, for her mother had taken

too little heed of her weakness, and one of the attacks which the

physician so urgently ordered her to avoid by caution commenced.

Els and the convent Sister Renata, who helped her nurse the invalid,

were now completely absorbed in caring for her, but Eva turned away from

the beloved sufferer--her sensitive nature could not endure the sight of

her convulsions.

As soon as her mother again lay weak but quiet on the pillows which Els

had rearranged for her, Eva obeyed her entreaty to go away, and went

to her own chamber. When another attack drew her back to the invalid,

a sign from her sister as she reached the threshold bade her keep away

from the couch. Should it prove necessary, she whispered, she would call

her. If Wolff came, Eva was to tell him that she could not leave her

mother, but he must be sure to return early the next morning, as she had

a great deal to say to him.

Eva then went to her father, who was dressing to attend a banquet at

the house of Herr Berthold Vorchtel, the first Losunger--[Presiding

Officer]--in the Council, from which he would be loath to absent himself

for the very reason that his host’s family had been hostile to him ever

since the rumour of the betrothal of Wolff Eysvogel, whom the Vorchtels

had regarded as their daughter Ursula’s future husband.

Nevertheless, Herr Ernst would not have gone to the entertainment had

his wife’s condition given cause for anxiety. But he was familiar with

these convulsions which, it is true, weakened the invalid, but produced

no other results; so he permitted Eva to help him put the last touches

to his dress, on which he lavished great care. Spick and span as if he

were just out of a bandbox, the elderly man, before leaving the house,

went once more to the sick-room, and Eva stood near as, after many

questions and requests, he whispered something to Els which she did not

hear. With excited curiosity she asked what he had said so secretly,

but he only answered hurriedly, “The name of the Man in the Moon’s dog,”

kissed her cheek, and ran downstairs.

At the foot he again turned to Eva and told her to send for him if her

mother should grow worse, for these entertainments at the Vorchtels

usually lasted a long time.

“Will the Eysvogels be there too?” asked the girl.

“Who knows,” replied her father. “I shall be glad if Wolff comes.”

The tone in which he uttered the name of his future son-in-law

distinctly showed how little he desired to meet any other member of

the family, and Eva said sympathisingly, “Then I hope you will have an

opportunity to remember me to Wolff.”

“Shall I say nothing to Ursel?” asked the father, pressing a good-night

kiss upon the young girl’s forehead.

“She would not care for it,” was the reply. “It cannot be easy to forget

a man like Wolff.”

“I wish he had stuck to Ursel, and let Els alone,” her father answered

angrily. “It would have been better for both.”

“Why, father,” interrupted Eva reproachfully, “do not our lovers seem

really created for each other?”

“If the Eysvogels were only of the same opinion,” exclaimed Ernst

Ortlieb, shrugging his shoulders with a faint sigh. “Whoever marries,

child, weds not only a man or a woman; all their kindred, unhappily,

must be taken into the bargain. However, Els did not lack earnest

warning. When your time comes, girl, your father will be more careful.”

Smiling tenderly, he passed his hand over the little cap which covered

her thick, fair hair, and went out.

Eva returned to her room and sat down at the spinning-wheel in the bow

window, where Katterle had just drawn the curtains closely and lighted

the hanging lamp. But the distaff remained untouched, and her thoughts

wandered swiftly to the evening before and the ball at the Town Hall.

Heinz Schorlin’s image rose more and more distinctly before her mind,

and this pleased her, for she fancied that he wore on his helm the blue

favour which she had chosen, and it led her to consider against what

foe she should first send him in the service of his lady and the Holy

Church.

CHAPTER VI.

Eva had gazed into vacancy a long time, and beheld a succession of

pleasing pictures, in every one of which, Heinz Schorlin appeared. Once,

in imagination, she placed a wreath on his helmet after a great victory

over the infidels.

Why should not this vision become a reality? Doubtless it owed its

origin to a memory, for Wolff Eysvogel had been fired with love for her

sister while Els was winding laurel around his helmet.

After the Honourable Council had resolved that the youths belonging to

noble families, who had fought in the battle of Marchfield and returned

victorious, should be adorned with wreaths by the maidens of their

choice, Fate had appointed her sister to crown Eysvogel.

At that time Wolff had but recently recovered from the severe wounds

with which he had returned from the campaign. But while he knelt before

Els and his eyes met hers, love had overmastered him so swiftly and

powerfully, that at the end of a few days he determined to woo her.

Meanwhile his own family resolutely opposed his choice. The father

declared that he had made an agreement with Berthold Vorchtel to marry

him to his daughter Ursula, and withdrawal on his son’s part would

embarrass him. His grandmother, the arrogant old Countess Rotterbach,

agreed with him, and declared that Wolff ought to wed no one except

a lady of the most aristocratic birth or an heiress like Ursula. Her

daughter Rosalinde Eysvogel, as usual, was the echo of her mother.

Herr Ernst Ortlieb, too, would far rather have seen his Els marry

into another home; but Wolff himself was a young man of such faultless

honour, and the bride he had chosen was so eager to become his, that he

deemed it a duty to forget the aversion inspired by the suitor’s family.

As for Wolff, he had so firmly persisted in his resolve that his parents

at last permitted him to ask for his darling’s hand, but his father had

made it a condition that the betrothal, on account of the youth of

the lovers, should not be announced till after Wolff had returned from

Milan, where he was to finish the studies commenced in Venice. True,

everyone had supposed that they were completed long ago, but Eysvogel

senior insisted upon his demand, and afterwards succeeded in deferring

the announcement of the betrothal, until the resolute persistence of

Wolff, who meanwhile had entered the great commercial house, and the

wish of his own aged mother, a sensible woman, who from the first had

approved her grandson’s choice and to whom Herr Casper was obliged

to show a certain degree of consideration, compelled him to give it

publicity.

A few days later Herr Casper’s brother died, and soon after his

estimable old mother. He used these events as a pretext for longer

delay, saying that both he and his wife needed at least six months’

interval ere they could forget their mourning in a gay wedding festival.

Besides, he would prefer not to have the marriage take place until after

Wolff’s election to the Council, which, in all probability, would occur

after Walpurgis of the coming year.

Ernst Ortlieb had sullenly submitted to all this. Nothing but his love

for his child and respect for Herr Casper’s dead mother, who had taken

Els to her heart like a beloved granddaughter, would have enabled him

to conquer his hasty temper in his negotiations with the man whom

he detested in his inmost soul, and not hurl back the consent so

reluctantly granted to his son.

The friends who knew him admired the strength of will with which he

governed his impetuous nature in this transaction. Some asserted that

secret obligations compelled him to yield to the rich Eysvogel; for

though the Ortlieb mercantile house was reputed wealthy, the business

prudence of its head resulted in smaller profits, and people had not

forgotten that it had suffered heavy losses during the terrible period

of despotism which had preceded the Emperor Rudolph’s accession to the

throne.

The insecurity of the high-roads had injured every merchant, but in

trying to find some explanation for Herr Ortlieb’s submission the

attacks which had cost him one and another train of wares were regarded

as specially disastrous.

Finally, the dowry which Els was to bring bore no comparison to the

large sums Ernst Ortlieb had lavished upon the erection of the St.

Clare Convent, and hence it was inferred that the wealth of the firm had

sustained considerable losses. This found ready credence, owing to the

retired life led by the Ortliebs,--whose house had formerly been one

of the most hospitable in the city,--ever since the wife had become an

invalid and Eva had grown up with an aversion to the world. Few took the

trouble to inquire into the very apparent causes for the change.

Yet this view of the matter was opposed by many-nay, when the

conversation turned upon these subjects, Herr Berthold Vorchtel, perhaps

the richest and most distinguished man in Nuremberg, who rented the

imperial taxes, made comments from which, had it not been so difficult

to believe, people might have inferred that Casper Eysvogel was indebted

to Ernst Ortlieb rather than the latter to him.

Yet the cautious, prudent man never explained the foundation of his

opinion, for he very rarely mentioned either of the two firms; yet prior

to the battle of Marchfield he had believed that his own daughter Ursula

and Wolff Eysvogel would sooner or later wed. Herr Casper, the young

man’s father, had strengthened this expectation. He himself and his

wife esteemed Wolff, and his “Ursel” had shown plainly enough that she

preferred him to the other friends of her elder brother Ulrich.

When he returned home the two met like brother and sister, and the

parents of Ursula Vorchtel had expected Wolff’s proposal until the day

on which the wreaths were bestowed had made them poorer by a favourite

wish and destroyed the fairest hope of their daughter Ursula.

The worthy merchant, it is true, deemed love a beautiful thing, but in

Nuremberg it was the parents who chose wives and husbands for their sons

and daughters; yet, after marriage, love took possession of the newly

wedded pair. A transgression of this ancient custom was very rare,

and even though Wolff’s heart was fired with love for Els Ortlieb, his

father, Herr Vorchtel thought, should have refused his consent to the

betrothal, especially as he had already treated Ursel as his future

daughter. Some compulsion must have been imposed upon him when he

permitted his son to choose a wife other than the one selected.

But what could render one merchant dependent upon another except

business obligations?--and Berthold Vorchtel was sharp-sighted. He knew

the heavy draft which Herr Casper had made upon the confidence reposed

in the old firm, and thought he had perceived that the great splendour

displayed by the women of the Eysvogel family, the liberality with which

Herr Casper had aided his impoverished noble relatives, and the lavish

expenditure of his son-in-law, the debt-laden Sir Seitz Siebenburg, drew

too heavily upon the revenues of the ancient house.

Even now Casper Eysvogel’s whole conduct proved how unwelcome was his

son’s choice. To him, Ursula’s father, he still intimated on many

an occasion that he had by no means resigned every hope of becoming,

through his son, more nearly allied to his family, for a betrothal was

not a wedding.

Berthold Vorchtel, however, was not the man to enter into such

double-dealing, although he saw plainly enough how matters stood with

his poor child. She had confided her feelings to no one; yet, in

spite of Ursula’s reserved nature, even a stranger could perceive that

something clouded her happiness. Besides, she had persistently refused

the distinguished suitors who sought the wealthy Herr Berthold’s pretty

daughter, and only very recently had promised her parents, of her own

free will, to give up her opposition to marriage.

Ever since the betrothal, to the sincere sorrow of Els, she had

studiously avoided Wolff’s future bride, who had been one of her dearest

friends; and Ulrich, Herr Vorchtel’s oldest son, took his sister’s part,

and at every opportunity showed Wolff--who from a child, and also in the

battle of Marchfield, had been a favourite comrade--that he bore him a

grudge, and considered his betrothal to any one except Ursula an act of

shameful perfidy.

The fair-minded father did not approve of his son’s conduct, for his

wife had learned from her daughter that Wolff had never spoken to her of

love, or promised marriage.

Therefore, whenever Herr Berthold Vorchtel met Els’s father--and this

often happened in the Council--he treated him with marked respect, and

when there was an entertainment in his house sent him an invitation,

as in former years, which Ernst Urtlieb accepted, unless something of

importance prevented.

But though the elder Vorchtel was powerless to change his children’s

conduct, he never wearied of representing to his son how unjust and

dangerous were the attacks with which, on every occasion, he irritated

Wolff, whose strength and skill in fencing were almost unequalled in

Nuremberg. In fact, the latter would long since have challenged his

former friend had he not been so conscious of his own superiority, and

shrunk from the thought of bringing fresh sorrow upon Ursula and her

parents, whom he still remembered with friendly regard.

Eva was fond of her future brother-in-law, and it had not escaped her

notice that of late something troubled him.

What was it?

She thoughtfully gave the wheel a push, and as it turned swiftly she

remembered the Swiss dance the evening before, and suddenly clenched her

small right hand and dealt the palm of her left a light blow.

She fancied that she had discovered the cause of Wolff’s depression, for

she again saw distinctly before her his sister Isabella’s husband, Sir

Seitz Siebenburg, as he swung Countess Cordula around so recklessly that

her skirt, adorned with glittering jewels, fluttered far out from her

figure. In the room adjacent to the hall he had flung himself upon his

knees before the countess, and Eva fancied she again beheld his big,

red face, with its long, thick, yellow mustache, whose ends projected on

both sides in a fashion worn by few men of his rank. The expression of

the watery blue eyes, with which he stared Cordula in the face, were

those of a drunkard.

To-day he had followed her to the Kadolzburg, and probably meant to

spend the night there. So Wolff had ample reason to be anxious about his

sister and her peace of mind. That must be it!

Perhaps he would yet come that evening, to give Els at least a greeting

from the street. How late was it?

She hastily tried to draw the curtains aside from the window, but this

was not accomplished as quickly as she expected--they had been care

fully fastened with pins. Eva noticed it, and suddenly remembered her

father’s whispered words to Els.

They were undoubtedly about the window. According to the calendar,

the moon would be full that day, and she knew very well that it had a

strange influence upon her. True, within the past year it appeared

to have lost its power; but formerly, especially when she had devoted

herself very earnestly to religious exercises, she had often, without

knowing how or why, left her bed and wandered about, not only in her

chamber but through the house. Once she had climbed to the dovecot in

the courtyard, and another time had mounted to the garret where, she did

not know in what way, she had been awakened. When she looked around,

the moon was shining into the spacious room, and showed her that she

was perched on one of the highest beams in the network of rafters which,

joined with the utmost skill, supported the roof. Below her yawned

a deep gulf, and as she looked down into it she was seized with such

terror that she uttered a loud shriek for help, and did not recover her

calmness until the old housekeeper, Martsche, who had started from her

bed in alarm, brought her father to her.

She had been taken down with the utmost care. No one was permitted to

help except white-haired Nickel, the old head packer, who often let a

whole day pass without opening his lips; for Herr Ernst seemed to lay

great stress upon keeping the moon’s influence on Eva a secret. There

was indeed something uncanny about this night-walking, for even now it

seemed incomprehensible how she had reached the beam, which was at least

the height of three men above the floor. A fall might have cost her

life, and her father was right in trying to prevent a repetition of such

nocturnal excursions. This time Els had helped him.

How faithfully she cared for them all!

Yes, she had barred out even the faintest glimmer. Eva smiled as she saw

the numerous pins with which her sister had fastened the curtain, and

an irresistible longing seized her to see once more the wonderful light

that promoted the growth of the hair if cut during its increase, and

also exerted so strange an influence upon her.

She must look up at the moon!

Swiftly and skilfully, as if aided by invisible hands, her dainty

fingers opened curtain and window.

Drawing a deep breath, with an emotion of pleasure which she had not

experienced for a long time, she gazed at the linden before the house

steeped in silvery radiance, and upward to the pure disk of the full

moon sailing in the cloudless sky. How beautiful and still the night

was! How delightful it would be to walk up and down the garden, with her

aunt the abbess, with Els, and perhaps--she felt the blood crimson her

cheeks--with Heinz Schorlin!

Where was he now?

Undoubtedly with the Emperor and his ladies, perhaps at the side of the

Bohemian princess, the young Duchess Agnes, who yesterday had so plainly

showed her pleasure in his society.

Just then the watch, marching from the Marienthurn to the Frauenthor,

gave her vagrant thoughts a new turn. The city guard was soon followed

by a troop of horse, which probably belonged to the Emperor’s train.

It was delightful to gaze, at this late hour, into the moonlit street,

and she wondered that she had never enjoyed it before. True, it would

have been still pleasanter had Els borne her company; and, besides, she

longed to tell her the new explanation she had found for Wolff’s altered

manner.

Perhaps her mother was asleep, and she could come with her.

How still the house was!

Cautiously opening the door of the sick-room, she glanced in. Els was

standing at the head of the bed, supporting her mother with her

strong young arms, while Sister Renata pushed the cushions between the

sufferer’s back and the bedstead.

The old difficulty of breathing had evidently attacked her again.

Yes, yes, the dim light of the lamp was shining on her pale face, and

the large sunken eyes were gazing with imploring anguish at the image of

the Virgin on the opposite wall.

How gladly Eva would have afforded her relief! She looked with a faint

sense of envy at her sister, whose skilful, careful hands did everything

to the satisfaction of the beloved sufferer, while in nursing she failed

only too often in giving the right touch. But she could pray--implore

the aid of her saint very fervently; nay, she was more familiar with

her, and might hope that she would fulfil a heartfelt wish of hers more

quickly than for her sister. It would not do to call Els to the window.

She closed the door gently, returned to her chamber, knelt and implored

St. Clare, with all the fervour of her heart, to grant her mother a good

night. Then she again drew the curtains closely over the window, and

went to call Katterle to help her undress.

But the maid was just entering with fresh water. What was the matter

with her?

Her hand trembled as she braided her young mistress’s hair and

sometimes, with a faint sigh, she stopped the movement of the comb.

Her silence could be easily explained; for Eva had often forbidden

Katterle to talk, when she disturbed her meditation. Yet the girl must

have had some special burden on her mind, for when Eva had gone to bed

she could not resolve to leave the room, but remained standing on the

threshold in evident embarrassment.

Eva encouraged her to speak, and Katterle, so confused that she often

hesitated for words and pulled at her ribbons till she was in danger of

tearing them from her white apron, stammered that she did not come

on her own account, but for another person. It was well known in the

household that her betrothed husband, the true and steadfast Walther

Biberli, served a godly knight, her countryman.

“I know it,” said Eva with apparent composure, “and your Biberli

has commissioned you to bear me the respectful greeting of Sir Heinz

Schorlin.”

The girl looked at her young mistress in surprise. She had been prepared

for a sharp rebuke, and had yielded to her lover’s entreaties to under

take this service amid tears, and with great anxiety; for if her act

should be betrayed, she would lose, amid bitter reproaches, the place

she so greatly prized. Yet Biberli’s power over her and her faith in him

were so great that she would have followed him into a lion’s den; and it

had scarcely seemed a more desirable venture to carry a love-greeting

to the pious maiden who held men in such disfavour, and could burst into

passionate anger as suddenly as her father.

And now?

Eva had expected such a message. It seemed like a miracle to Katterle.

With a sigh of relief, and a hasty thanksgiving to her patron saint, she

at once began to praise the virtue and piety of the servant as well as

his lord; but Eva again interrupted, and asked what Sir Heinz Schorlin

desired.

Katterle, with new-born confidence, repeated, as if it were some trivial

request, the words Biberli had impressed upon her mind.

“By virtue of the right of every good and devout knight to ask his lady

for her colour, Sir Heinz Schorlin, with all due reverence, humbly prays

you to name yours; for how could he hold up his head before you and

all the knights if he were denied the privilege of wearing it in your

honour, in war as well as in peace?”

Here her mistress again interrupted with a positive “I know,” and, still

more emboldened, Katterle continued the ex-schoolmaster’s lesson to the

end:

“His lord, my lover says, will wait here beneath the window, in all

reverence, though it should be till morning, until you show him your

sweet face. No, don’t interrupt me yet, Mistress Eva, for you must know

that Sir Heinz’s lady mother committed her dear son to my Biberli’s

care, that he might guard him from injury and illness. But since his

master met you, he has been tottering about as though he had received a

spear-thrust, and as the knight confessed to his faithful servitor that

no leech could help him until you permitted him to open his heart to you

and show you with what humble devotion----”

But here the maid was interrupted in a manner very different from her

expectations, for Eva had raised herself on her pillows and, almost

unable to control her voice in the excess of her wrath, exclaimed:

“The master who presumes to seek through his servant----And by what

right does the knight dare thus insolently----But no! Who knows what

modest wish was transformed in your mouth to so unprecedented a demand?

He desired to see my face? He wanted to speak to me in person, to

confess I know not what? From you--you, Katterle, the maid--the knight

expects----”

Here she struck her little hand angrily against the wood of the bedstead

and, panting for breath, continued:

“I’ll show him!----Yet no! What I have to answer no one else----From me,

from me alone, he shall learn without delay. There is paper in yonder

chest, on the very top; bring it to me, with pen and ink.”

Katterle silently hurried to obey this order, but Eva pressed her hand

upon her heaving bosom, and gazed silently into vacancy.

The manservant and the maid whom Heinz Schorlin had made his messengers

certainly could have no conception of the bond that united her to him;

even her own sister had misunderstood it. He should now learn that

Eva Ortlieb knew what beseemed her! But she, too, longed for another

meeting, and this conduct rendered it necessary.

The sooner they two had a conversation, the better. She could

confidently venture to invite him to the meeting which she had in view;

her aunt, the abbess, had promised to stand by her side, if she needed

her, in her intercourse with the knight.

But her colour?

Katterle had long since laid the paper and writing materials before

her, but she still pondered. At last, with a smile of satisfaction, she

seized the pen. The manner in which she intended to mention the colour

should show him the nature of the bond which united them.

She was mistress of the pen, for in the convent she had copied the

gospels, the psalms, and other portions of the Scriptures, yet her hand

trembled as she committed the following lines to the paper:

“I am angered--nay, even grieved--that you, a godly knight, who knows

the reverence due to a lady, have ventured to await my greeting in front

of my father’s house. If you are a true knight, you must be aware that

you voluntarily promised to obey my every glance. I can rely upon this

pledge, and since I find it necessary to talk with you, I invite you to

an interview--when and where, my maid, who is betrothed to your servant,

shall inform him. A friend, who has your welfare at heart as well as

mine, will be with me. It must be soon, with the permission of St.

Clare, who, since you have chosen her for your patron saint, looks down

upon you as well as on me.

“As for my colour, I know not what to name; the baubles associated with

earthly love are unfamiliar to me. But blue is the colour of the pure

heaven and its noble queen, the gracious Virgin. If you make this colour

yours and fight for it, I shall rejoice, and am willing to name it

mine.”

At the bottom of the little note she wrote only her Christian name

“Eva,” and when she read it over she found that it contained, in apt and

seemly phrases, everything that she desired to say to the knight.

While folding the paper and considering how she could fasten it, as

there was no wax at hand, she thought of the narrow ribbons with which

Els tied together, in sets of half a dozen, the fine kerchiefs worn over

the neck and bosom, when they came from the wash. They were sky-blue,

and nothing could be more suitable for the purpose.

Katterle brought one from the top of the chest. Eva wound it swiftly

around the little roll, and the maid hastily left the room, sure of the

gratitude of the true and steadfast Biberli.

When Eva was again alone, she at first thought that she might rejoice

over her hasty act; but on asking herself what Els would say, she felt

certain that she would disapprove of it and, becoming disconcerted,

began to imagine what consequences it might entail.

The advice which her father had recently given Wolff, never to let any

important letter pass out of his hands until at least one night had

elapsed, returned to her memory, and from that instant the little note

burdened her soul like a hundred-pound weight.

She would fain have started up to get it back again, and a strong

attraction drew her towards the window to ascertain whether Heinz

Schorlin had really come and was awaiting her greeting.

Perhaps Katterle had not yet delivered the note. What if she were

still standing at the door of the house to wait for Biberli? If, to

be absolutely certain, she should just glance out, that would not be

looking for the knight, and she availed herself of the excuse without

delay.

In an instant she sprang from her bed and gently drew the curtain aside.

The street was perfectly still. The linden and the neighbouring houses

cast dark, sharply outlined shadows upon the light pavement, and from

the convent garden the song of the nightingale echoed down the quiet

moonlit street.

Katterle had probably already given the note to Heinz Schorlin who,

obedient to his lady’s command, as beseemed a knight, had gone away.

This soothed her anxiety, and with a sigh she went back to bed.

But the longing to look out into the street again was so strong that she

yielded to the temptation; yet, ere she reached the window, she summoned

the strength of will which was peculiar to her and, lying down, once

more closed her lids, with the firm resolve to see and hear nothing. As

she had not shut her eyes the night before and, from dread of the ball,

had slept very little during the preceding one, she soon, though the

moon was shining in through the parted curtains, lapsed into a

condition midway between sleep and waking. Extreme fatigue had deadened

consciousness, yet she fancied that at times she heard the sound of

footsteps on the pavement outside, and the deep voices of men.

Nor was what she heard in her half-dozing state, which was soon followed

by the sound slumber of youth, any delusion of the senses.

CHAPTER VII.

The moon found something in front of the Ortlieb house worth looking at.

Rarely had she lighted with purer, brighter radiance the pathway of the

mortals who excited her curiosity, than that of the two handsome young

men who, at a moderate interval of time, passed through the Frauenthor,

and finally entered the courtyard of the Ortlieb residence almost at the

same instant.

Luna first saw them pace silently to and fro, and delighted in the

resentful glances they cast at each other. This joy increased as the one

in the long coat, embroidered on the shoulder with birds, and then the

other, whose court costume well became his lithe, powerful limbs, sat

down, each on one of the chains connecting the granite posts between the

street and the courtyard.

The very tall one, who looked grave and anxious, was Wolff Eysvogel; the

other, somewhat shorter, who swung gaily to and fro on the chain as if

it afforded him much amusement, Heinz Schorlin.

Both frequently glanced up at the lighted bow-window and the smaller

one on the second story, behind which Eva lay half asleep. This was the

first meeting of the two men.

Wolff, aware of his excellent right to remain on this-spot, would have

shown the annoying intruder his displeasure long before, had he not

supposed that the other, whom at the first glance he recognised as a

knight, was one of Countess Cordula von Montfort’s admirers. Yet he soon

became unable to control his anger and impatience. Yielding to a hasty

impulse, he left the chain, but as he approached the stranger the latter

gave his swaying seat a swifter motion and, without vouchsafing him

either greeting or introductory remark, said carelessly, “This is a

lovely night.”

“I am of the same opinion,” replied Wolff curtly. “But I would like

to ask, sir, what induced you to choose the courtyard of this house to

enjoy it?”

“Induced?” asked the Swiss in astonishment; then, looking the other in

the face with defiant sharpness, he added scornfully:

“I am warming the chain because it suits me to do so.”

“You are allowed the pleasure,” returned Wolff in an irritated tone;

“nay, I can understand that night birds of your sort find no better

amusement. Still, it seems to me that a knight who wishes to keep iron

hot might attain his object better in another way.”

“Why, of course,” cried Heinz Schorlin, springing swiftly to his feet

with rare elasticity. “It gives a pleasant warmth when blade strikes

blade or the hot blood wets them. I am no friend to darkness, and it

seems to me, sir, as if we were standing in each other’s light here.”

“There our opinions concur for the second time this lovely night,”

quietly replied the patrician’s son, conscious of his unusual strength

and skill in fencing, with a slight touch of scorn. “Like you, I am

always ready to cross blades with another; only, the public street is

hardly the fitting place for it.”

“May the plague take you!” muttered the Swiss in assent to Wolff’s

opinion. “Besides, sir, who ever grasps iron so swiftly is worth a

parley. To ask whether you are of knightly lineage would be useless

trouble, and should it come to a genuine sword-dance.

“You will find a partner in me at any time,” was the reply, “as I, who

wear my ancient escutcheon with good right, would gladly give you a

crimson memento of this hour--though you were but the son of a cobbler.

But first let us ascertain--for I, too, dislike darkness--whether we

are really standing in each other’s light. With all due respect for

your fancy for warming chains, it would be wise, ere Sir Red Coat--[The

executioner]--puts his round our ankles for disturbing the peace, to

have a sensible talk.”

“Try it, for aught I care,” responded Heinz Schorlin cheerily.

“Unluckily for me, I live in a state of perpetual feud with good sense.

One thing, however, seems certain without any serious reflection: the

attraction which draws me here, as well as you, will not enter the

cloister as a monk, but as a little nun, wears no beard, but braids her

hair. Briefly, then, if you are here for Countess Cordula von Montfort’s

sake, your errand is vain; she will sleep at Kadolzburg to-night.”

“May her slumber be sweet!” replied Wolff calmly. “She is as near to me

as yonder moon.”

“That gives the matter a more serious aspect,” cried the knight angrily.

“You or I. What is your lady’s name?”

“That, to my mind, is asking too much,” replied Wolff firmly.

“And the law of love gives you the right to withhold an answer. But,

sir, we must nevertheless learn for the sake of what fairest fair we

have each foregone sleep.”

“Then tell me, by your favour, your lady’s colour,” Wolff asked the

Swiss.

The latter laughed gaily: “I am still putting that question to my

saint.”

Then, noticing Wolff’s shake of the head, he went on in a more serious

tone: “If you will have a little patience, I hope I may be able to tell

you, ere we part.”

This assurance also seemed to Wolff an enigma. Who in the wide world

would come from under the respectable Ortlieb roof, at this hour, to

tell a stranger anything whatsoever concerning one of its daughters?

Neither could have given him the right to regard her as his lady, and

steal at night, like a marten, around the house which contained his

dearest treasure. This obscurity was an offence to Wolff Eysvogel, and

he was not the man to submit to it. Yonder insolent fellow should learn,

to his hurt, that he had made a blunder.

But scarcely had he begun to explain to Heinz that he claimed the right

to protect both the daughters of this house, the younger as well as the

older, since they had no brother, when the knight interrupted:

“Oho! There are two of them, and she, too, spoke of a sister. So, if it

comes to sharing, sir, we need not emulate the judgment of Solomon. Let

us see! The colour is uncertain, but to every Christian mortal a name

clings as closely as a shadow and, if I mention the initial letter of

the one which adorns my lady, I believe I shall commit no offence that

a court of love could condemn. The initial, which I like because it is

daintily rounded and not too difficult to write-mark it well--is ‘E.’”

Wolff Eysvogel started slightly and gripped the dagger in his belt,

but instantly withdrew his hand and answered with mingled amusement

and indignation: “Thanks for your good will, Sir Knight, but this, too,

brings us no nearer our goal; the E is the initial of both the Ortlieb

sisters. The elder who, as you may know, is my betrothed bride, bears

the name of Elizabeth, or Els, as we say in Nuremberg.”

“And the younger,” cried Heinz joyously, “honours with her gracious

innocence the name of her through whom sin came into the world.”

“But you, Sir Knight,” exclaimed Wolff fiercely, “would do better not to

name sin and Eva Ortlieb in the same breath. If you are of a different

opinion----”

“Then,” interrupted the Swiss, “we come back to warming the iron.”

“As you say,” cried Wolff resolutely. “In spite of the peace of the

country, I will be at your service at any time. As you see, I went out

unarmed, and it would not be well done to cross swords here.”

“Certainly not,” Heinz assented. “But many days and nights will follow

this moonlight one, and that you may have little difficulty in finding

me whenever you desire, know that my name is Heinrich--or to more

intimate friends, among whom you might easily be numbered if we don’t

deprive each other of the pleasure of meeting again under the sun--Heinz

Schorlin.”

“Schorlin?” asked Wolff in surprise. “Then you are the knight who, when

a beardless boy, cut down on the Marchfield the Bohemian whose lance had

slain the Emperor’s charger, the Swiss who aided him to mount the steed

of Ramsweg of Thurgau--your uncle, if I am not mistaken--and then took

the wild ride to bring up the tall Capeller, with his troops, who so

gloriously decided the day.”

“And,” laughed Heinz, “who was finally borne off the field as dead

before the fulfilment of his darling wish to redden Swiss steel with

royal Bohemian blood. This closed the chronicle, Herr--what shall I call

you?”

“Wolff Eysvogel, of Nuremberg,” replied the other.

“Aha! A son of the rich merchant where the Duke of Gulich found

quarters?” cried the Swiss, lifting his cap bordered with fine miniver.

“May confusion seize me! If I were not my father’s son, I wouldn’t

mind changing places with you. It must make the neck uncommonly stiff,

methinks, to have a knightly escutcheon on door and breast, and yet be

able to fling florins and zecchins broadcast without offending the devil

by an empty purse. If you don’t happen to know how such a thing looks, I

can show you.”

“Yet rumour says,” observed Wolff, “that the Emperor is gracious to you,

and knows how to fill it again.”

“If one doesn’t go too far,” replied Heinz, “and my royal master, who

lacks spending money himself only too often, doesn’t keep his word

that it was done for the last time. I heard that yesterday morning, and

thought that the golden blessing which preceded it would last the dear

saints only knew how long. But ere the cock had crowed even once this

morning the last florin had vanished. Dice, Herr Wolff Eysvogel--dice!”

“Then I would keep my hands off them,” said the other meaningly.

“If the Old Nick or some one else did not always guide them back! Did

you, a rich man’s son, never try what the dice would do for you?”

“Yes, Sir Knight. It was at Venice, where I was pursuing my studies,

and tried my luck at gambling on many a merry evening with other sons of

mercantile families from Nuremberg, Augsburg, and Cologne.”

“And your feathers were generously plucked?”

“By no means. I usually left a winner. But after they fleeced a dear

friend from Ulm, and he robbed his master, I dropped dice.”

“And you did so as easily as if it were a short fast after an abundant

meal?”

“It was little more difficult,” Wolff asserted. “My father would have

gladly seen me outdo my countrymen, and sent me more money than I

needed. Why should I deprive honest fellows who had less?”

“That’s just the difficulty,” cried his companion eagerly. “It was easy

for you to renounce games of chance because your winnings only added

more to the rest, and you did not wish to pluck poorer partners. But I!

A poor devil like me cannot maintain armour-bearer, servants, and steeds

out of what the dear little mother at home in her faithful care can

spare from crops and interest. How could we succeed in making a fair

appearance at court and in the tournament if it were not for the dice?

And then, when I lose, I again become but the poor knight the saints

made me; when I win, on the contrary, I am the great and wealthy lord I

would have been born had the Lord permitted me to choose my own cradle.

Besides, those who lose through me are mainly dukes, counts, and

gentlemen with rich fiefs and fat bourgs, whom losing doubtless

benefits, as bleeding relieves a sick man. What suits the soldier does

not befit the merchant. We live wholly amid risks and wagers. Every

battle, every skirmish is a game whose stake is life. Whoever reflects

long is sure to lose. If I could only describe, Herr Eysvogel, what it

is to dash headlong upon the foe!”

“I could imagine that vividly enough,” Wolff eagerly interposed. “I,

too, have broken many a lance in the lists and shed blood enough.”

“What a dunce I am!” cried Heinz in amazement, pressing his hand upon

his brow. “That’s why your face was so familiar! By my saint! I am no

knight if I did not see you then, before the battle waxed hot. It

was close beside your Burgrave Frederick, who held aloft the imperial

banner.”

“Probably,” replied Wolff in a tone of assent. “He sometimes entrusted

the standard to me, when it grew too heavy for his powerful arm,

because I was the tallest and the strongest of our Nuremberg band. But,

unluckily, I could not render this service long. A scimitar gashed my

head. The larger part of the little scar is hidden under my hair.”

“The little scar!” repeated Heinz gaily. “It was wide enough, at any

rate, for the greatest soul to slip through it. A scar on the head

from a wound received four years ago, and yet distinctly visible in the

moonlight!”

“It should serve as a warning,” replied Wolff, glancing anxiously up the

street. “If the patrol, or any nocturnal reveller should catch sight

of us, it would be ill for the fair fame of the Ortlieb sisters, for

everybody knows that only one--Els’s betrothed lover--has a right to

await a greeting here at so late an hour. So follow me into the shadow

of the linden, I entreat you; for yonder--surely you see it too--a

figure is gliding towards us.”

Heinz Schorlin’s laugh rang out like a bell as he whispered to the

Nuremberg patrician: “That figure is familiar to me, and neither we nor

our ladies need fear any evil from it. Excuse me moment, and I’ll wager

twenty gold florins against yonder linden leaf that, ere the moonlight

has left the curbstone, I can tell you my lady’s colour.”

As he spoke he hastened towards the figure, now, standing motionless

within the shadow of the door post beside the lofty entrance.

Wolff Eysvogel remained alone, gazing thoughtfully upon the ground.

CHAPTER VIII.

The silent wanderer above had expected to behold a scene very unlike

an interview between two men. The latter required neither her purest,

fullest light, nor the shadow of a blossoming linden.

Now Luna saw the young Nuremberg merchant gaze after the Swiss with an

expression of such deep anxiety and pain upon his manly features that

she felt the utmost pity for him. He did not look upward as usual to

the window of his beautiful Els, but either fixed his eyes upon the spot

where his new acquaintance was conversing with another person, or bent

them anxiously upon the ground.

As Wolff thought of Heinz Schorlin, it seemed as if Fate had thrown him

into the way of the Swiss that he might feel with twofold anguish the

thorns besetting his own life path. The young knight was proffered the

rose without the thorn. What cares had he? The present threw into his

lap its fairest blessings, and when he looked into the future he beheld

only the cheering buds of hope.

Yet this favourite of fortune had expressed a desire to change places

with him. The thought that many others, too, would be glad to step into

his shoes tortured Wolff’s honest heart as though he himself were to

blame for the delusion of these short-sighted folk.

Apart from his strength and health, his well-formed body, his noble

birth, his faith in the love of his betrothed bride--at this hour he

forgot how much these things were--he found nothing in his lot which

seemed worth desiring.

He might not even rejoice in his stainless honesty with the same perfect

confidence as in his betrothal.

Yes, he had cared for noble old Berthold Vorchtel’s daughter as if she

were his sister. He had even found pleasure in the thought that Ursula

was destined to become his wife, yet no word either of love or allusion

to future marriage had been exchanged between them. He had felt free,

and had a right to consider himself so, when love for Els Ortlieb

overwhelmed him so swiftly and powerfully.

Yet Ursula and her oldest brother treated him as if he had been guilty

of base disloyalty. His pure conscience, however, enabled him to endure

this more easily than the other burden, of which he became aware on the

long-anticipated day when his father made him a partner in the old

firm and gave him an insight into the condition of the property and the

course of the business.

Then he had learned the heavy losses which had been sustained recently,

and the sad disparity existing between the great display by which his

father and mother, as well as his grandmother, the countess, maintained

the appearance of their former princely wealth, and the balances of the

last few years.

When he had just boasted to the reckless young knight that he had given

up gaming, he told but half the truth, for though since his period of

study in Venice, and later in Milan, he had not touched dice, he had

been forced to consent to a series of enterprises undertaken by his

father, whose stakes were far different from the gambling of the knights

and nobles at the Green Shield or in the camp.

Yet he intended to bind the fate of the woman he loved to his own, for

Els, spite of the opposition of his family, would have been already

indissolubly united to him, had not one failure after another destroyed

his courage to take her hand. Finally, he deemed it advisable to await

the result of the last great enterprise, now on the eve of decision. It

might compensate for many of the losses of recent years. Should it be

favourable, the heaviest burden would be lifted from his soul; in the

opposite case the old house would be shaken to its foundations. Yet

even its fall would have been easier for him to endure than this cruel

uncertainty, to which was added the torturing anxiety of bearing the

responsibility of things for which he was not to blame, and of which,

moreover, he was even denied a clear view. Yet he felt absolutely

certain that his father was concealing many things, perhaps the worst,

and often felt as if he were walking in the darkness over a mouldering

bridge. Ah, if it could only be propped up, and then rebuilt! But if it

must give way, he hoped the catastrophe would come soon. He knew that

he possessed the strength to build a new home for Els and himself. Even

were it small and modest, it should be erected on a firm foundation and

afford a safe abode for its inmates.

What did the young, joyous-hearted fellow who was wooing Eva know

of such cares? Fate had placed him on the sunny side of life, where

everything flourished, and set him, Wolff, in the shade, where grass and

flowers died.

There is a magic in fame which the young soul cannot easily escape, and

the name of Heinz Schorlin was indeed honoured and on every lip. The

imagination associated with it the cheerful nature which, like a loyal

comrade, goes hand in hand with success, deserved and undeserved good

fortune, woman’s favour, doughty deeds, the highest and strongest traits

of character.

An atmosphere like sunshine, which melts all opposition, emanated from

Heinz. Wolff had experienced it himself. He had seriously intended to

make the insolent intruder feel his strong arm, but since he had learned

the identity of the Swiss his acts and nature appeared in a new light.

His insolence had gained the aspect of self-confidence which did not

lack justification, and when a valiant knight talked to him so frankly,

like a younger brother to an older and wiser one, it seemed to the

lonely man who, of late, completely absorbed in the course of business,

had held aloof from the sports, banquets, and diversions of the

companions of his own age, that he had experienced something unusually

pleasant. How tender and affectionate it sounded when Heinz alluded to

the “little mother” at home! He, Wolff, on the contrary, could think

only with a shade of bitterness of the weak woman to whom he owed his

existence, and whom filial duty and earnest resolution alike commanded

him to love, yet who made it so difficult for him to regard her with

anything save anxiety or secret disapproval.

Perhaps the greatest advantage which the Swiss possessed over him was

his manner of speaking of his family. How could it ever have entered

Wolff Eysvogel’s mind to call the tall, stiff woman, who was the feeble

echo of her extravagant, arrogant mother, and who rustled towards him,

even in the early morning, adorned with feathers and robed in rich

brocade, his “dear little mother”?

Whoever spoke in the warm, loving tones that fell from the lips of Sir

Heinz when he mentioned his relatives at home certainly could have no

evil nature. No one need fear, though his usual mode of speech was so

wanton, that he would trifle with a pure, innocent creature like Eva.

How Heinz had succeeded in winning so speedily the devout child, who

was so averse to the idle coquetries of the companions of her own age,

seemed incomprehensible, but he had no time to investigate now.

He must go, for he had long been burning with impatience to depart. The

declaration of peace had taken effect only a few hours before, and the

long waggon trains from Italy, of which he had told Els yesterday, were

still delayed. The freight of spices and Levantine goods, Milan velvets,

silks, and fine Florentine cloths, which they were bringing from the

city of St. Mark, represented a large fortune. If it arrived in time,

the profits would cover a great portion of the losses of the past two

years, and the house would again be secure. If the worst should befall,

how would his family submit to deprivation, perhaps even to penury? He

had less fear of his grandmother’s outbursts of wrath, but what would

become of his feeble mother, who was as dependent as a child on her own

mother? Yet he loved her; he felt deeply troubled by the thought of the

severe humiliation which menaced her. His sister Isabella, too, was dear

to him, in spite of her husband, the reckless Sir Seitz Siebenburg, in

whose hands the gold paid from the coffers of the firm melted away, yet

who was burdened with a mountain of debts.

Wolff had left orders at home to have his horse saddled. He had intended

only to wave a greeting to his Els and then ride to Neumarkt, or, if

necessary, as far as Ingolstadt, to meet the wains.

A word of farewell to the new acquaintance, who was probably destined

to be his brother-in, law, and then--But just at that moment Heinz

approached, and in reply to Wolff’s low question “And your lady’s

colour?” he answered joyously, pointing to the breast of his doublet: “I

am carrying the messenger which promises to inform me, here on my heart.

In the darkness it was silent; but the bright moonlight yonder will

loose its tongue, unless the characters here are too unlike those of the

prayer-book.”

Drawing out Eva’s little roll as he spoke, he approached a brightly

lighted spot, pointed to the ribbon which fastened it, and exclaimed:

“Doubtless she used her own colour to tie it. Blue, the pure, exquisite

blue of her eyes! I thought so Forget-me-not blue! The most beautiful of

colours. You must pardon my impatience!”

He was about to begin to read the lines; but Wolff stopped him by

pointing to the Ortlieb residence and to two drunken soldiers who

came out of the tavern “For Thirsty Troopers,” and walked, singing and

staggering, up the opposite side of the street. Then, extending his

hand to Heinz in farewell, he asked in a low tone, pointing to Biberli’s

figure just emerging from the shade, who was the messenger of love who

served him so admirably.

“My shadow,” replied the knight. “I loosed him from my heels and bade

him stand there. But no offence, Herr Wolff Eysvogel; you’ll make the

queer fellow’s acquaintance if, like myself, it would be agreeable to

you to meet often, not only on iron chains, but on friendly terms with

each other.”

“Nothing would please me more,” replied the other. “But how in the world

could it happen that this well-guarded fortress surrendered to you after

so short a resistance?”

“Heinz Schorlin rides swiftly,” he interrupted; but Wolff exclaimed:

“A swift ride awaits me, too, though of a different kind. When I

return, I shall expect you to tell me how you won our ‘little saint,’ my

sister-in-law Eva. The two beautiful Ortlieb ‘Es’ are one in the eyes

of the townsfolk, so we also will be often named in the same breath, and

shall do well to feel brotherly regard for each other. There shall be no

fault on my part. Farewell, till we meet again, an’ it please God in and

not outside of our ladies’ dwelling.”

While speaking he clasped the knight’s hand with so firm a grasp that

it seemed as if he wished to force him to feel its pressure a long time,

and hastened through the Frauenthor.

Heinz Schorlin gazed thoughtfully after him a short time, then beckoned

to Biberli and, though the interval required for him to reach his

master’s side was very brief, it was sufficient for the bold young

lover, tortured by his ardent longing, to form another idea.

“Look yonder, Biberli!” he exclaimed. “The holy-water basin on the

door-post, the escutcheon on the lintel above, the helmet, which would

probably bear my weight. From there I can reach the window-sill with my

hand, and once I have grasped it, I need only make one bold spring and,

hurrah! I’m on it.”

“May our patron saint have mercy on us!” cried the servant in horror.

“You can get there as easily as you can spring on your two feet over

two horses; but the coming down would certainly be a long distance lower

than you would fancy--into the ‘Hole,’ as they call the prison here,

and, moreover, though probably not until some time later, straight to

the flames of hell; for you would have committed a great sin against a

noble maiden rich in every virtue, who deemed you worthy of her love.

And, besides, there are two Es. They occupy the same room, and the house

is full of men and maid servants.”

“Pedagogue!” said the knight, peevishly.

“Ay, that was Biberli’s calling once,” replied the servant, “and, for

the sake of your lady mother at home, I wish I were one still, and you,

Sir Heinz, would have to obey me like an obedient pupil. You are well

aware that I rarely use her sacred name to influence you, but I do so

now; and if you cherish her in your heart and do not wish to swoop down

on the innocent little dove like a destroying hawk, turn your back upon

this place, where we have already lingered too long.”

But this well-meant warning seemed to have had brief influence upon the

person to whom it was addressed. Suddenly, with a joyous: “There she

is!” he snatched his cap from his head and waved a greeting to the

window.

But in a few minutes he replaced it with a petulant gesture of the hand,

saying sullenly: “Vanished! She dared not grant me a greeting, because

she caught sight of you.”

“Let us thank and praise a kind Providence for it,” said his servitor

with a sigh of relief, “since our Lord and Saviour assumed the form of a

servant, that of a scarecrow, in which he has done admirable service, is

far too noble and distinguished for Biberli.”

As he spoke he walked on before the knight, and pointing to the tavern

beside the Frauenthurm whose sign bore the words “For Thirsty Troopers,”

he added: “A green bush at the door. That means, unless the host is a

rogue, a cask fresh broached. I wonder whether my tongue is cleaving to

my palate from dread of your over-hasty courage, or whether it is really

so terribly sultry here!”

“At any rate,” Heinz interrupted, “a cup of wine will harm neither of

us; for I myself feel how oppressive the air is. Besides, it is light in

the tavern, and who knows what the little note will tell me.”

Meanwhile they passed the end of St. Klarengasse and went up to the

green bush, which projected from the end of a pole far out into the

street.

Soldiers in the pay of the city, and men-at-arms in the employ of the

Emperor and the princes who had come to attend the Reichstag, were

sitting over their wine in the tavern. From the ceiling hung two crossed

iron triangles, forming a six-pointed star. The tallow candles burning

low in their sockets, which it contained, and some pitch-pans in the

corners, diffused but a dim light through the long apartment.

Master and man found an empty table apart from the other guests, in a

niche midway down the rear wall.

Without heeding the brawling and swearing, the rude songs and disorderly

shouts, the drumming of clenched fists upon the oak tables, the wild

laughter of drunken soldiers, the giggling and screeching of bar-maids,

and the scolding and imperious commands of the host, they proved that

the green bush had not lied, for the wine really did come from a freshly

opened cask just brought up from the cellar. But as the niche was

illumined only by the tiny oil lamp burning beneath the image of the

Virgin, bedizened with flowers and gold and silver tinsel, fastened

against the wall, Biberli asked the weary bar-maid for a brighter light.

When the girl withdrew he sighed heavily, saying: “O my lord, if you

only knew! Even now, when we are again among men and the wine has

refreshed me, I feel as if rats were gnawing at my soul. Conscience, my

lord-conscience!”

“You, too, are usually quite ready to play the elf in the rose-garden

of love,” replied Heinz gaily. “Moreover, I shall soon need a T and an

S embroidered on my own doublet, for----Why don’t they bring the light?

Another cup of wine, the note, and then with renewed vigour we’ll go

back again.”

“For God’s sake,” interrupted Biberli, “do not speak, do not even think,

of the bold deed you suggested! Doesn’t it seem like a miracle that not

one of the many Ortlieb and Montfort servants crossed your path? Even

such a child of good luck as yourself can scarcely expect a second one

the same evening. And if there is not, and you go back under the window,

you will be recognised, perhaps even seized, and then--O my lord,

consider this!--then you will bear throughout your life the reproach of

having brought shame and bitter sorrow upon a maiden whom you yourself

know is lovely, devout, and pure. And I, too, who serve you loyally in

your lady mother’s behalf, as well as the poor maid who, to pleasure me,

interceded for you with her mistress, will run the risk of our lives

if you are caught climbing into the window or committing any similar

offence; for in this city they are prompt with the stocks, the stone

collar, the rack, and the tearing of the tongue from the mouth whenever

any one is detected playing the part of go-between in affairs of love.”

“Usually, old fellow,” replied Heinz in a tone of faint reproach, “we

considered it a matter of course that, though we took the most daring

risks in such things, we were certain not to be caught. Yet, to be

frank, some incomprehensible burden weighs upon my soul. My feelings

are confused and strange. I would rather tear the crown from the head

of yonder image of the Virgin than do aught to this sweet innocence for

which she could not thank me.”

Here he paused, for the bar-maid brought a two-branched candelabrum, in

which burned two tallow candles.

Heinz instantly opened the little roll.

How delicate were the characters it contained! His heart’s beloved had

committed them to the paper with her own hand, and the knight’s blood

surged hotly through his veins as he gazed at them. It seemed as though

he held in his hand a portion of herself and, obeying a hasty impulse,

he kissed the letter.

Then he eagerly began to study the writing; he had never seen anything

so delicate and peculiar in form.

The deciphering of the first lines in which, it is true, she called him

a godly knight, but also informed him that his boldness had angered her,

caused him much difficulty, and Biberli was often obliged to help.

Would she have rebuffed him so ungraciously with her lips as with the

pen? Was it possible that, on account of a request which every lover

ventured to address to his lady, she would withdraw the favour which

rendered him so happy? Oh, yes, for innocence is delicate and sensitive.

She ought to have repelled him thus. He was secretly rejoiced to see the

sweet modesty which had so charmed him again proved. He must know what

the rest of the letter contained, and the ex-schoolmaster was at hand to

give the information at once.

True, the hastily written sentences presented some difficulties even for

Biberli, but after glancing through the whole letter, he exclaimed with

a satisfied smile: “Just as I expected! At the first look one might

think that the devout little lady was wholly unlike the rest of her

sex, but on examining more closely she proves as much like any other

beautiful girl as two peas. With good reason and prudent caution she

forbids the languishing knight to remain beneath her window, yet she

will risk a pleasant little interview in some safe nook. That is wise

for so young a girl, and at the same time natural and womanly. I don’t

know why you knit your brows. Since the first Eve came from a crooked

rib, all her daughters prefer devious ways. But first hear what she

writes.” Then, without heeding his master’s gloomy face, he began to

read the note aloud.

Heinz listened intently, and after he had heard that the lady of his

love did not desire to meet him alone, but only under the protection of

a friend and her saint, when he heard her name her colour, it is true,

but also express the expectation that, as a godly knight, he would fight

for her sake in honour of the gracious Virgin, his face brightened.

During Biberli’s scoffing comments he had felt as if a tempest had

hurled her pure image in the dust. But now that he knew what she asked

of him, it returned as a matter of course to its old place and, with

a sigh of relief, he felt that he need not be ashamed of the emotions

which this wonderful young creature had awakened in his soul. She had

opened her pious heart like a trusting sister to an older brother, and

what he had seen there was something unusual--things which had appeared

sacred to him even when a child. Since he took leave of her in the

ball-room he had felt as though Heaven had loaned this, its darling,

to earth for but a brief space, and her brocade robe must conceal angel

wings. Should it surprise him that the pure innocence which filled her

whole being was expressed also in her letter, if she summoned him, not

to idle love-dalliance but to a covenant of souls, a mutual conflict for

what was highest and most sacred? Such a thing was incomprehensible to

Biberli; but notwithstanding her letter--nay, even on its account--he

longed still more ardently to lead her home to his mother and see her

receive the blessing of the woman whom he so deeply honoured.

He had Eva’s letter read for the second and the third time. But when

Biberli paused, and in a few brief sentences cast fresh doubts upon the

writer, Heinz angrily stopped him. “The longing of the godly heart of a

pure maiden--mark this well--has naught in common with that diabolical

delight in secret love--dalliance for which others yearn. My wish to

force my way to her was sinful, and it was punished severely enough, for

during your rude scoffs I felt as though you had set fire to the house

over my head. But from this I perceive in what a sacred, inviolable spot

her image had found a place. True, it is denied you to follow the lofty,

heavenward aspiration of a pure soul--”

“O my lord,” interrupted the servitor with hands uplifted in defence,

“who besought you not to measure this innocent daughter of a decorous

household, who was scarcely beyond childhood, by the standard you

applied to others? Who entreated you to spare her fair fame? And if you

deem the stuff of which the servant is made too coarse to understand

what moves so pure a soul, you do Biberli injustice, for, by my patron

saint, though duty commanded me to interpose doubts and scruples between

you and a passion from which could scarcely spring aught that would

bring joy to your mother’s heart I, too, asked myself the question

why, in these days, a devout maiden should not long to try her skill in

conversion upon a valiant knight who served her. Ever since St. Francis

of Assisi appeared in Italy, barefooted monks and grey-robed nuns, who

follow him, Franciscans and Sisters of St. Clare stream hither as water

flows into a mill-race when the sluice-gates are opened. With what

edification we, too, listened to the old Minorite whom we picked up by

the wayside, at the tavern where we usually found pleasure in nothing

but drinking, gambling, shouting, and singing! Besides, I know from

my sweetheart with what exemplary devotion the lovely Eva follows St.

Clare.”

“Who is now and will remain my patron saint also, old Biber,”

interrupted Heinz with joyful emotion, as he laid his hand gratefully

on his follower’s shoulder; then rising and beckoning to the bar-maid,

added: “The stuff of which you are made, old comrade, is inferior to

no man’s. Only now and then the pedagogue plays you a trick. Had you

uttered your real opinion in the first place, the wine would have tasted

better to us both. Let Eva try the work of conversion on me! What, save

my lady’s love, is more to me than our holy faith? It must indeed be a

delight to take the field for the Church and against her foes!” While

speaking, he paid the reckoning and went out with Biberli.

The moon was now pouring her silver beams, with full radiance, over the

quiet street, the linden in front of the Ortlieb house, and its lofty

gable roof. Only a single room in the spacious mansion was still

lighted, the bow-windowed one occupied by the two sisters.

Heinz, without heeding Biberli’s renewed protest, looked upward,

silently imploring Eva’s pardon for having misjudged her even a moment.

His gaze rested devoutly on the open window, behind which a curtain was

stirring. Was it the night breeze that almost imperceptibly raised and

lowered it, or was her own dear self concealed behind it?

Just at that moment he suddenly felt his servant’s hand on his arm, and

as he followed his horror-stricken gaze, a chill ran through his own

veins. From the heavy door of the house, which stood half open, a

white-robed figure emerged with the solemn, noiseless footfall of a

ghost, and advanced across the courtyard towards him.

Was it a restless spirit risen from its grave at the midnight hour,

which must be close at hand? Through his brain, like a flash of

lightning, darted the thought that Eva had spoken to him of her invalid

mother. Had she died? Was her wandering soul approaching him to drive

him from the threshold of the house which hid her endangered child?

But no!

The figure had stopped before the door and now, raising its head, gazed

with wide eyes upward at the moon, and--he was not mistaken--it was

no spectre of darkness; it was she for whom every pulse of his heart

throbbed--Eva!

No human creature had ever seemed to him so divinely fair as she in

her long white night-robe, over which fell the thick waves of her

light hair. The horror which had seized him yielded to the most ardent

yearning. Pressing his hand upon his throbbing heart, he watched her

every movement. He longed to go forward to meet her, yet a supernatural

spell seemed to paralyse his energy. He would sooner have dared clasp in

his arms the image of a beautiful Madonna than this embodiment of pure,

helpless, gracious innocence.

Now she herself drew nearer, but he felt as if his will was broken, and

with timid awe he drew back one step, and then another, till the chain

stopped him.

Just at that moment she paused, stretched out her white arm with a

beckoning gesture, and again turned towards the house, Heinz following

because he could not help it, her sign drew him after her with magnetic

power.

Now Eva entered the dimly lighted corridor, and again her uplifted hand

seemed to invite him to follow. Then--the impetuous throbbing of his

heart almost stifled him--she set her little white foot on the first

step of the stairs and led the way up to the first landing, where she

paused, lifting her face to the open window, through which the moonbeams

streamed into the hall, flooding her head, her figure, and every

surrounding object with their soft light.

Heinz followed step by step. It seemed as if the wild surges of a sea

were roaring in his ears, and glittering sparks were dancing before his

yearning, watchful eyes.

How he loved her! How intense was the longing which drew him after

her! And yet another emotion stirred in his heart with still greater

power-grief, sincere grief, which pierced his in, most soul, that she

could have beckoned to him, permitted him to follow her, granted him

what he would never have ventured to ask. Nay, when he set his foot on

the first step, it seemed as if the temple which contained his holiest

treasure fell crashing around him, and an inner voice cried loudly:

“Away, away from here! Would you exchange the purest and loftiest things

for what tomorrow will fill you with grief and loathing?” it continued

to admonish. “You will relinquish what is dearest and most sacred to

secure what is ready to rush into your arms on all the high-roads.

“Hence, hence, you poor, deluded mortal, ere it is too late!”

But even had he known it was the fair fiend Venus herself moving before

him under the guise of Eva, the spell of her unutterable beauty would

have constrained him to follow her, though the goal were the Horselberg,

death, and hell.

On the second landing she again stood still and, leaning against a

pillar, raised her arms and extended them towards the moon, in whose

silvery light they gleamed like marble. Heinz saw her lips move, heard

his own name fall from them, and all self-control vanished.

“Eva!” he cried with passionate fervor, holding out his arms to clasp

her; but, ere he even touched her, a shriek of despairing anguish echoed

loudly back from the walls.

The sound of her own name had broken the threads with which the

mysterious power of the moonlight had drawn her from her couch, down

through the house, out of doors, and again back to the stairs.

Sleep vanished with the dream which she had shared with him and,

shuddering, she perceived where she was, saw the knight before her,

became conscious that she had left her chamber in her night-robe, with

disordered hair and bare feet; and, frantic with horror at the thought

of the resistless might with which a mysterious force constrained her to

obey it against her own will, deeply wounded by the painful feeling that

she had been led so far across the bounds of maidenly modesty, hurt and

angered by the boldness of the man before her, who had dared to follow

her into her parents’ house, she again raised her voice, this time to

call her from whom she was accustomed to seek and find help in every

situation in life.

“Els! Els!” rang up the stairs; and the next moment Els, who had already

heard Eva’s first scream, sprang down the few steps to her sister’s

side.

One glance at the trembling girl in her nightrobe, and at the moonlight

which still bathed her in its rays, told Els what had drawn Eva to the

stairs.

The knight must have slipped into the house and found her there. She

knew him and, before Heinz had time to collect his thoughts, she said

soothingly to her sister, who threw her arms around her as though

seeking protection, “Go up to your room, child!--Help her, Katterle.

I’ll come directly.”

While Eva, leaning on the maid’s arm, mounted the stairs with trembling

knees, Els turned to the Swiss and said in a grave, resolute tone: “If

you are worthy of your escutcheon, Sir Knight, you will not now fly like

a coward from this house across whose threshold you stole with shameful

insolence, but await me here until I return. You shall not be detained

long. But, to guard yourself and another from misinterpretation, you

must hear me.”

Heinz nodded assent in silence, as if still under the spell of what he

had recently experienced. But, ere he reached the entry below, Martsche,

the old housekeeper, and Endres, the aged head packer, came towards

him, just as they had risen from their beds, the former with a petticoat

flung round her shoulders, the latter wrapped in a horse-blanket.

Eva’s shriek had waked both, but Els enjoined silence on everyone and,

after telling them to go back to bed, said briefly that Eva in her

somnambulism had this time gone out into the street and been brought

back by the knight. Finally, she again said to Heinz, “Presently!” and

then went to her sister.

CHAPTER IX.

When Biberli bade farewell to his sweetheart, who gave him Eva’s little

note, he had arranged to meet her again in an hour or, if his duties

detained him longer, in two; but after the “true and steadfast” fellow

left her, her heart throbbed more and more anxiously, for the wrong

she had done in acting as messenger between the young daughter of her

employers and a stranger knight was indeed hard to forgive.

Instead of waiting in the kitchen or entry for her lover’s return, as

she had intended, she had gone to the image of the Virgin at the gate of

the Convent of St. Clare, before which she had often found consolation,

especially when homesick yearning for the mountains of her native

Switzerland pressed upon her too sorely. This time also it had been

gracious to her, for after she had prayed very devoutly and vowed to

give a candle to the Mother of God, as well as to St. Clare, she

fancied that the image smiled upon her and promised that she should go

unpunished.

On her return the knight had just followed Eva into the house, and

Biberli pursued his master as far as the stairs. Here Katterle met her

lover, but, when she learned what was occurring, she became greatly

enraged and incensed by the base interpretation which the servant placed

upon Eva’s going out into the street and, terrified by the danger into

which the knight threatened to plunge them all, she forgot the patience

and submission she was accustomed to show the true and steadfast

Biberli. But--resolved to protect her young mistress from the

presumptuous knight-scarcely had she angrily cried shame upon her lover

for this base suspicion, protesting that Eva had never gone to seek a

knight but, as she had often done on bright moonlight nights, walked in

her sleep down the stairs and out of doors, when the young girl’s shriek

of terror summoned her to her aid.

Biberli looked after her sullenly, meanwhile execrating bitterly enough

the wild love which had robbed his master of reason and threatened to

hurl him, Biberli, and even the innocent Katterle, whose brave defence

of her mistress had especially pleased him, into serious misfortune.

When old Endres appeared he had slipped behind a wall formed of bales

heaped one above another, and did not stir until the entry was quiet

again.

To his amazement he had then found his master standing beside the door

of the house, but his question--which, it is true, was not wholly devoid

of a shade of sarcasm--whether the knight was waiting for the return of

his sleep-walking sweetheart, was so harshly rebuffed that he deemed it

advisable to keep silence for a time.

Though Heinz Schorlin had perceived that he had followed an unconscious

somnambulist, he was not yet capable of calmly reflecting upon what had

occurred or of regarding the future with prudence. He knew one thing

only: the fear was idle that the lovely creature whose image, surrounded

by a halo of light, still hovered before him like a vision from a

higher, more beautiful world, was an unworthy person who, with a face

of angelic innocence, transgressed the laws of custom and modesty. Her

shriek of terror, her horror at seeing him, and the cry for help which

had brought her sister to her aid and roused the servants from their

sleep, gave him the right to esteem her as highly as ever; and this

conviction fanned into such a blaze the feeling of happiness which love

had awakened and his foolish distrust had already begun to stifle, that

he was firmly resolved, cost what it might, to make Eva his own.

After he had reached this determination he began to reflect more

quietly. What cared he for liberty and a rapid advance in the career

upon which he had entered, if only his future life was beautified by her

love!

If he were required to woo her in the usual form, he would do so. And

what a charming yet resolute creature was the other E, who, in her

anxiety about her sister, had crossed his path with such grave, firm

dignity! She was Wolff Eysvogel’s betrothed bride, and it seemed to

him a very pleasant thing to call the young man, whom he had so quickly

learned to esteem, his brother-in-law.

If the father refused his daughter to him, he would leave Nuremberg and

ride to the Rhine, where Hartmann, the Emperor Rudolph’s son, whom he

loved like a younger brother, was now living. Heinz had instructed the

lad of eighteen in the use of the lance and the sword, and Hartmann had

sent him word the day before that the Rhine was beautiful, but without

him he but half enjoyed even the pleasantest things. He needed him.

Hundreds of other knights and squires could break in the new horses for

the Emperor and the young Bohemian princess, though perhaps not quite

so skilfully. Hartmann would understand him and persuade his imperial

father to aid him in his suit. The warmhearted youth could not bear to

see him sorrowful, and without Eva there was no longer joy or happiness.

He was roused from these thoughts and dreams by his own name called in a

low tone.

Katterle had gone with Eva to the chamber, whither the older sister

followed them. Tenderly embracing the weeping girl, she had kissed

her wet eyes and whispered in an agitated voice, with which, however,

blended a great deal of affectionate mischief: “The wolf who forced his

way into the house does not seem quite so harmless as mine, whom I have

succeeded in taming very tolerably. Go to mother now, darling. I’ll be

back directly.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Eva timidly, still unable, under the

influence of her strange experiences, to regain her self-control.

“To look around the house,” replied her sister, beckoning to Katterle to

accompany her.

In the entry she questioned the maid with stern decision, and the

trembling girl owned, amid her tears, that Eva had sent a little note to

the knight in reply to his request that she would name her colour, and

whatever else her anxious mistress desired hastily to learn.

After a threatening “We will discuss your outrageous conduct later,” Els

hurried down-stairs, and found in the entry the man whose pleasure in

the pursuit of the innocent child whom she protected she meant to spoil.

But though she expressed her indignation to the knight with the utmost

harshness, he besought a hearing with so much respect and in such seemly

words, that she requested him, in a gentler tone, to speak freely. But

scarcely had he begun to relate how Eva, at the ball, had filled his

heart with the purest love, when the trampling of horses’ hoofs, which

had come nearer and nearer to the house, suddenly ceased, and Biberli,

who had gone into the court-yard, came hurrying back, exclaiming in a

tone of warning, “The von Montforts!”

At the same moment two men-servants threw back both leaves of the door,

torchlight mingled with the moonbeams in the courtyard, and the next

instant a goodly number of knights and gentlemen entered the hall.

Biberli was not mistaken. The von Montforts had returned home, instead

of spending the night at Kadolzburg, and neither Els nor the Swiss had

the time or disposition to seek concealment.

The intruders were preceded by men-servants, whose torches lighted the

long, lofty storehouse brilliantly. It seemed to Els as if her heart

stopped beating and she felt her cheeks blanch.

Here she beheld Count von Montfort’s bronzed face, the countenance of a

sportsman and reveller; yonder the frank, handsome features of the young

Burgrave, Eitelfritz von Zollern, framed by the hood of the Knights of

St. John, drawn up during the night-ride; there the pale, noble visage

of the quiet knight Boemund Altrosen, far famed for his prowess with

lance and sword; beyond, the scarred, martial countenance of Count

Casper Schlick, set in a mass of tangled brown locks; and then the

watery, blue eyes of Sir Seitz Siebenburg, the husband of her future

sister-in-law Isabella.

They had pressed in, talking eagerly, laughing, and rejoicing that the

wild night ride proposed by Cordula von Montfort, which had led over

dark forest paths, lighted only by a stray moonbeam, and often across

fields and ditches and through streams, had ended without mischance to

man or beast.

Now they all crowded around the countess, Seitz Siebenburg bending

towards her with such zeal that the ends of his huge mustache brushed

the plumes in her cap, and Boemund Altrosen, who had just been gazing

into the flushed face of the daring girl with the warm joy of true love,

cast a look of menace at him.

Els, too, greatly disliked “the Mustache,” as her future brother-in-law

was called because the huge ornament on his upper lip made him

conspicuous among the beardless knights. She was aware that he returned

the feeling, and had left no means untried to incite Wolff Eysvogel’s

parents to oppose his betrothal. Now he was one of the first to notice

her and, after whispering with a malicious smile to the countess and

those nearest to him, he looked at her so malevolently that she could

easily guess what interpretation he was trying to put upon her nocturnal

meeting with the Swiss in the eyes of his companions.

Her cheeks flamed with wrath, and like a flash of lightning came the

thought of the pleasure it would afford this wanton company, whose

greatest delight was to gloat over the errors of their neighbours, if

the knight who had brought her into this suspicious situation, or she

herself, should confess that not she, but the devout Eva, had attracted

Heinz hither. What a satisfaction it would be to this reckless throng to

tell such a tale of a young girl of whom the Burgravine von Zollern had

said the evening before to their Uncle Pfinzing, that purity and piety

had chosen Eva’s lovely face for a mirror!

What if Heinz Schorlin, to save her, Els, from evil report, should

confess that she was here only to rebuke his insolent intrusion into a

decorous household?

This must be prevented, and Heinz seemed to understand her; for after

their eyes had met, his glance of helpless enquiry told her that he

would leave her to find an escape from this labyrinth.

The merry party, who now perceived that they had interrupted the

nocturnal tryst of lovers, did not instantly know what to do and, as

one looked enquiringly at another, an embarrassed silence followed their

noisy jollity.

But the hush did not last long, and its interruption at first seemed to

Els to bode the worst result; it was a peal of gay, reckless laughter,

ringing from the lips of the very Cordula von Montfort, into whose eyes,

as the only one of her own sex who was present, Els had just gazed with

a look imploring aid.

Had Eva’s aversion to the countess been justified, and was she about to

take advantage of her unpleasant position to jeer at her?

Had the two quarreled at the ball the night before, and did Cordula now

perceive an opportunity to punish the younger sister by the humiliation

of the older one?

Yet her laugh sounded by no means spiteful--rather, very gay and

natural. The pleasant grey eyes sparkled with the most genuine mirth,

and she clapped her little hands so joyously that the falcon’s chain on

the gauntlet of her riding glove rattled.

And what was this?

No one looks at a person whom one desires to wound with an expression of

such cheerful encouragement as the look with which Cordula now gazed at

Els and Heinz Schorlin, who stood by her side. True, they were at first

extremely perplexed by the words she now shouted to those around her in

a tone of loud exultation, as though announcing a victory; but from the

beginning they felt that there was no evil purpose in them. Soon they

even caught the real meaning of the countess’s statement, and Els was

ashamed of having feared any injury from the girl whose defender she had

always been.

“Won, Sir Knight--cleverly won!” was her first sentence to Heinz.

Then, turning to Els, she asked with no less animation: “And you, my

fair maid and very strict housemate, who has won the wager now? Do you

still believe it is an inconceivable thought that the modest daughter

of a decorous Nuremberg race, entitled to enter the lists of a tourney,

would grant a young knight a midnight meeting?” And addressing her

companions, she continued, in an explanatory yet still playful tone:

“She was ready to wager the beautiful brown locks which she now hides

modestly under a kerchief, and even her betrothed lover’s ring.

It should be mine if I succeeded in leading her to commit such an

abominable deed. But I was content, if I won the wager, with a smaller

forfeit; yet now that I have gained it, Jungfrau Ortlieb, you must pay!”

The whole company listened in astonishment to this speech, which no

one understood, but the countess, nodding mischievously to her nearest

neighbours, went on:

“How bewildered you all look! It might tempt me to satisfy your

curiosity less speedily, but, after the delightful entertainment you

gave us, my Lord Burgrave, one becomes merciful. So you shall hear how

I, as wise as the serpent, craftily forced this haughty knight”--she

tapped Heinz Schorlin’s arm with her riding whip--“and you, too,

Jungfrau Ortlieb, whose pardon I now entreat, to help me win the bet. No

offence, noble sirs! But this bet was what compelled me to drag you all

from Kadolzburg and its charms so early, and induce you to attend me on

the reckless ride through the moonlit night. Now accept the thanks of

a lady whose heart is grateful; for your obedience helped me win

the wager. Look yonder at my handsome, submissive knight, Sir Heinz

Schorlin, so rich in every virtue. I commanded, him, on pain of my

anger, to meet me at midnight at the entrance of our quarters--that is,

the entry of the Ortlieb mansion; and to this modest and happy betrothed

bride (may she pardon the madcap!) I represented how it troubled me and

wounded my timid delicacy to enter so late at night, accompanied only

by gentlemen, the house which so hospitably sheltered us, and go to my

sleeping room, though I should not fear the Sultan and his mamelukes,

if with this in my hand”--she motioned to her riding whip--“and my dear

father at my side, I stood on my own feet which, though by no means

small, are well-shod and resolute. Yet, as we are apt to measure others

by our own standard, the timid, decorous girl believed me, and poor

Cordula, who indeed brought only her maids and no female guardian, and

therefore must dispense with being received on her return by a lady

capable of commanding respect, did not appeal in vain to the charitable

feelings of her beautiful housemate. She promised faithfully to come

down into the entry, when the horses approached, to receive the poor

lamb, surrounded by lynxes, wild-cats, foxes, and wolves, and lead it

into the safe fold--if one can call this stately house by such a name.

Both Sir Heinz Schorlin and Jungfrau Elizabeth Ortlieb kept their

word and joined each other here--to their extreme amazement, I should

suppose, as to my knowledge they never met before--to receive me, and

thus had an interview which, however loudly they may contradict it, I

call a nocturnal meeting. But my wager, fair child, is won, and tomorrow

you will deliver to me the exquisite carved ivory casket, while I shall

keep my bracelet.”

Here she paused, paying no heed to the merry threats, exclamations of

amazement, and laughter of her companions.

But while her father, striking his broad chest, cried again and again,

with rapturous delight, “A paragon of a woman!” and Seitz Siebenburg, in

bitter disappointment, whispered, “The fourteen saintly helpers in time

of need might learn from you how to draw from the clamps what is not

worth rescue and probably despaired of escape,” she was trying to

give time to recover more composure her young hostess, to whom she

was sincerely attached, and who, she felt sure, could have met Heinz

Schorlin, who perhaps had come hither on her own account, only by

some cruel chance. So she added in a quieter tone: “And now, Jungfrau

Ortlieb, in sober earnest I will ask your protection and guidance

through the dark house, and meanwhile you shall tell me how Sir Heinz

greeted you and what passed between you, either good or bad, during the

time of waiting.”

Els summoned up her courage and answered loud enough to be heard by

all present: “We were speaking of you, Countess Cordula, and the knight

said:

“I ventured to remark, Countess,” said Heinz, interrupting the new ally,

“that though you might understand how to show a poor knight his folly,

no kinder heart than yours throbbed under any bodice in Switzerland,

Swabia, or France.” Cordula struck him lightly on the shoulder with her

riding whip, saying with a laugh: “Who permits you to peep under women’s

bodices through so wide a tract of country, you scamp? Had I been

in Jungfrau Ortlieb’s place I should have punished your entry into a

respectable house:

“Oh, my dear Countess,” Heinz interrupted, and his words bore so

distinctly the stamp of truth and actual experience that even Sir Seitz

Siebenburg was puzzled, “though I am always disposed to be grateful to

you, I cannot feel a sense of obligation for this lady’s reception of

me, even to the most gracious benefactress. For, by my patron saint, she

forbade me the house as if I were a thief and a burglar.”

“And she was right!” exclaimed the countess. “I would have treated you

still more harshly. Only you would have spared yourself many a sharp

word had you confessed at once that it was I who summoned you here. I’ll

talk with you tomorrow, and am I not right, Jungfrau Elsyou won’t make

him suffer for losing the wager, but exercise your domestic authority

after a more gentle fashion?”

While speaking, she looked at Els with a glance so full of meaning that

the young girl’s cheeks crimsoned, and the longing to put an end to this

deceitful game became almost uncontrollable. The thought of Eva alone

sealed her lips.

CHAPTER X.

One person only besides Sir Seitz Siebenburg had not been deceived--the

young knight Boemund Altrosen, whose love for Cordula was genuine, and

who, by its unerring instinct, felt that she had invented her tale and

for a purpose which did honour to her kindness of heart. So his calm

black eyes rested upon the woman he loved with proud delight, while

Seitz Siebenburg twisted his mustache fiercely. Not a look or movement

of either of the two girls had escaped his notice, and Cordula’s bold

interference in behalf of the reckless Swiss knight, who now seemed

to have ensnared his future sister-in-law also, increased the envy and

jealousy which tortured him until he was forced to exert the utmost

self-restraint in order not to tell the countess to her face that he, at

least, was far from being deceived by such a fable. Yet he succeeded in

controlling himself. But as he forced his lips to silence he gazed with

the most open scorn at the bales of merchandise heaped around him. He

would show the others that, though the husband of a merchant’s daughter,

he retained the prejudices of his knightly rank.

But no one heeded the disagreeable fellow, who had no intimate friends

in the group. Most of the company were pressing round Heinz Schorlin

with jests and questions, but bluff Count von Montfort warmly clasped

Els’s hand, while he apologised for the bold jest of his young daughter

who, in spite of her recklessness, meant kindly.

Nothing could have been more unwelcome to a girl in so unpleasant a

situation than this delay. She longed most ardently to get away but,

ere she succeeded in escaping from the friendly old noble, two gentlemen

hastily entered the brightly lighted entry, at sight of whom her heart

seemed to stop beating.

The old count, who noticed her blanched face, released her, asking

sympathisingly what troubled her, but Els did not hear him.

When she felt him loose her hand she would fain have fled up the stairs

to her mother and sister, to avoid the discussions which must now

follow. But she knew into what violent outbursts of sudden anger her

usually prudent father could be hurried if there was no one at hand to

warn him.

There he stood in the doorway, his stern, gloomy expression forming a

strange contrast to the merry party who had entered in such a jovial

mood.

His companion, Herr Casper Eysvogel, had already noticed his future

daughter-in-law, recognised her by an amazed shrug of the shoulders

which was anything but a friendly greeting, and now eyed the excited

revellers with a look as grave and repellent as that of the owner of the

house. Herr Casper’s unusual height permitted him to gaze over the heads

of the party though, with the exception of Count von Montfort, they were

all tall, nay, remarkably tall men, and the delicacy of his clear-cut,

pallid, beardless face had never seemed to Els handsomer or more

sinister. True, he was the father of her Wolff, but the son resembled

this cold-hearted man only in his unusual stature, and a chill ran

through her veins as she felt the stately old merchant’s blue eyes,

still keen and glittering, rest upon her.

On the day of her betrothal she had rushed into his arms with a warm and

grateful heart, and he had kissed her, as custom dictated; but it was

done in a strange way--his thin, well-cut lips had barely brushed her

brow. Then he stepped back and turned to his wife with the low command,

“It is your turn now, Rosalinde.” Her future mother-in-law rose quickly,

and doubtless intended to embrace her affectionately, but a loud cough

from her own mother seemed to check her, for ere she opened her arms to

Els she turned to her and excused her act by the words, “He wishes it.”

Yet Els was finally clasped in Frau Rosalinde’s arms and kissed more

warmly than--from what had previously occurred--she had expected.

Wolff’s grandmother, old Countess Rotterbach, who rarely left the huge

gilt armchair in her daughter’s sitting-room, had watched the whole

scene with a scornful smile; then, thrusting her prominent chin still

farther forward, she said to her daughter, loud enough for Els to hear,

“This into the bargain?”

All these things returned to the young girl’s memory as she gazed at the

cold, statuesque face of her lover’s father. It seemed as if he held his

tall, noble figure more haughtily erect than usual, and that his plain

dark garments were of richer material and more faultless cut than ever;

nay, she even fancied that, like the lion, which crouches and strains

every muscle ere it springs upon its victim, he was summoning all his

pride and sternness to crush her.

Els was innocent; nay, the motive which had brought her here to defend

her sister could not fail to be approved by every well-disposed person,

and certainly not last by her father, and it would have suited her

truthful nature to contradict openly Countess Cordula’s friendly

falsehood had not her dread of fatally exposing Eva imposed silence.

How her father’s cheeks glowed already! With increasing anxiety, she

attributed it to the indignation which overpowered him, yet he was only

heated by the haste with which, accompanied by his future son-in-law’s

father, he had rushed here from the Frauenthor as fast as his feet would

carry him. Casper Eysvogel had also attended the Vorchtel entertainment

and accompanied Ernst Ortlieb into the street to discuss some business

matters.

He intended to persuade him to advance the capital for which he had just

vainly asked Herr Vorchtel. He stood in most urgent need for the next

few days of this great sum, of which his son and business partner must

have no knowledge, and at first Wolff Eysvogel’s future father-in-law

saw no reason to refuse. But Herr Ernst was a cautious man, and when his

companion imposed the condition that his son should be kept in ignorance

of the loan, he was puzzled. He wished to learn why the business partner

should not know what must be recorded in the books of the house; but

Casper Eysvogel needed this capital to silence the Jew Pfefferkorn, from

whom he had secretly borrowed large sums to conceal the heavy losses

sustained in Venice the year before at the gaming table.

At first courteously, then with rising anger, he evaded the questions

of the business man, and his manner of doing so, with the little

contradictions in which the arrogant man, unaccustomed to falsehood,

involved himself, showed Herr Ernst that all was not as it should be.

By the time they reached the Frauenthor, he had told Casper Eysvogel

positively that he would not fulfil the request until Wolff was informed

of the matter.

Then the sorely pressed man perceived that nothing but a frank

confession could lead him to his goal. But what an advantage it would

give his companion, what a humiliation it would impose upon himself!

He could not force his lips to utter it, but resolved to venture a last

essay by appealing to the father, instead of to the business man; and

therefore, with the haughty, condescending manner natural to him,

he asked Herr Ernst, as if it were his final word, whether he had

considered that his refusal of a request, which twenty other men would

deem it an honour to fulfil, might give their relations a form very

undesirable both to his daughter and himself?

“No, I did not suppose that a necessity,” replied his companion firmly,

and then added in an irritated tone: “But if you need the loan so much

that you require for your son a father-in-law who will advance it to you

more readily, why, then, Herr Casper--”

Here he paused abruptly. A flood of light streamed into the street

from the doorway of the Ortlieb house. It must be a fire, and with

the startled cry, “St. Florian aid us! my entry is burning!” he rushed

forward with his companion to the endangered house so quickly that the

torchbearers, who even in this bright night did good service in the

narrow streets, whose lofty houses barred out the moonlight, could

scarcely follow.

Thus Herr Ernst, far more anxious about his invalid, helpless wife than

his imperilled wares, soon reached his own door. His companion crossed

the threshold close behind him, sullen, deeply incensed, and determined

to order his son to choose between his love and favour and the daughter

of this unfriendly man, whom only a sudden accident had prevented from

breaking the betrothal.

The sight of so many torches blazing here was an exasperating spectacle

to Ernst Ortlieb, who with wise caution and love of order insisted that

nothing but lanterns should be used to light his house, which contained

inflammable wares of great value; but other things disturbed his

composure, already wavering, to an even greater degree.

What was his Els doing at this hour among these gentlemen, all of whom

were strangers?

Without heeding them or the countess, he was hastening towards her to

obtain a solution of this enigma, but the young Burgrave Eitelfritz von

Zollern, the Knight of Altrosen, Cordula von Montfort, and others barred

his way by greeting him and eagerly entreating him to pardon their

intrusion at so late an hour.

Having no alternative, he curtly assented, and was somewhat soothed

as he saw old Count von Montfort, who was still standing beside Els,

engaged in an animated conversation with her. His daughter’s presence

was probably due to that of the guests quartered in his home, especially

Cordula, whom, since she disturbed the peace of his quiet household

night after night, he regarded as the personification of restlessness

and reckless freedom. He would have preferred to pass her unnoticed, but

she had clung to his arm and was trying, with coaxing graciousness, to

soften his indignation by gaily relating how she had come here and

what had detained her and her companions. But Ernst Ortlieb, who would

usually have been very susceptible to such an advance from a young and

aristocratic lady, could not now succeed in smoothing his brow. In his

excitement he was not even able to grasp the meaning of the story she

related merrily, though with well-feigned contrition. While listening

to her with one ear, he was straining the other to catch what Sir Seitz

Siebenburg was saying to his father-in-law, Casper Eysvogel.

He gathered from Countess Cordula’s account that she had succeeded in

playing some bold prank in connection with Els and the Swiss knight

Heinz Schorlin, and the words “the Mustache” was whispering to his

father-in-law-the direction of his glance betrayed it--also referred to

Els and the Swiss. But the less Herr Ernst heard of this conversation

the more painfully it excited his already perturbed spirit.

Suddenly his pleasant features, which, on account of the lady at his

side, he had hitherto forced to wear a gracious aspect, assumed an

expression which filled the reckless countess with grave anxiety, and

urged the terrified Els, who had not turned her eyes from him, to a

hasty resolution. That was her father’s look when on the point of an

outbreak of fury, and at this hour, surrounded by these people, he must

not allow himself to yield to rage; he must maintain a tolerable degree

of composure.

Without heeding the young Burgrave Eitelfritz or Sir Boemund Altrosen,

who were just approaching her, she forced her way nearer to her father,

He still maintained his self-control, but already the veins on his brow

had swollen and his short figure was rigidly erect. The cause of

his excitement--she had noticed it--was some word uttered by Seitz

Siebenburg. Her father was the only person who had understood it, but

she was not mistaken in the conjecture that it referred to her and the

Swiss knight, and she believed it to be base and spiteful.

In fact, after his father-in-law had told him that Ernst Ortlieb thought

his house was on fire, “the Mustache,” in reply to Herr Casper’s enquiry

how his son’s betrothed bride happened to be there, answered scornfully:

“Els? She did not hasten hither, like the old man, to put the fire

out, but because one flame was not enough for her. Wolff must know it

to-morrow. By day the slender little flame of honourable betrothed love

flickers for him; by night it blazes more brightly for yonder Swiss

scoundrel. And the young lady chooses for the scene of this toying with

fire the easily ignited warehouse of her own father!”

“I will secure mine against such risks,” Casper Eysvogel answered; then,

casting a contemptuous glance at Els and a wrathful one at the Swiss

knight, he added with angry resolution: “It is not yet too late. So long

as I am myself no one shall bring peril and disgrace upon my house and

my son.”

Then Herr Ernst had suddenly become aware of the suspicion with which

his beautiful, brave, self-sacrificing child was regarded. Pale as

death, he struggled for composure, and when his eyes met the imploring

gaze of the basely defamed girl, he said to himself that he must

maintain his self-control in order not to afford the frivolous revellers

who surrounded him an entertaining spectacle.

Wolff was dear to him, but before he would have led his Els to the

house where the miserable “Mustache” lived, and whose head was the

coldhearted, gloomy man whose words had just struck him like a poisoned

arrow, he, whom the Lord had bereft of his beloved, gallant son, would

have been ready to deprive himself of his daughters also and take both

to the convent. Eva longed to go, and Els might find there a new and

beautiful happiness, like his sister, the Abbess Kunigunde. In the

Eysvogel house, never!

During these hasty reflections Els extended her hand toward him, and

the shining gold circlet which her lover had placed on her ring finger

glittered in the torchlight. A thought darted through his brain with

the speed of lightning, and without hesitation he drew the ring from

the hand of his astonished daughter, whispering curtly, yet tenderly, in

reply to her anxious cry, “What are you doing?”

“Trust me, child.”

Then hastily approaching Casper Eysvogel, he beckoned to him to move a

little aside from the group.

The other followed, believing that Herr Ernst would now promise the sum

requested, yet firmly resolved, much as he needed it, to refuse.

Ernst Ortlieb, however, made no allusion to business matters, but with a

swift gesture handed him the ring which united their two children. Then,

after a rapid glance around had assured him that no one had followed

them, he whispered to Herr Casper: “Tell your Wolff that he was, and

would have remained, dear to us; but my daughter seems to me too good

for his father’s house and for kindred who fear that she will bring

injury and shame upon them. Your wish is fulfilled. I hereby break the

betrothal.”

“And, in so doing, you only anticipate the step which I intended to take

with more cogent motives,” replied Casper Eysvogel with cool composure,

shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. “The city will judge to-morrow

which of the two parties was compelled to sever a bond sacred in the

sight of God and men. Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to give

your daughter the good opinion you cherish of my son.”

Drawing his stately figure to its full height as he spoke, he gazed at

his diminutive adversary with a look of haughty contempt and, without

vouchsafing a word in farewell, turned his back upon him.

Repressed fury was seething in Ernst Ortlieb’s breast, and he would

scarcely have succeeded in controlling himself longer but for the

consolation afforded by the thought that every tie was sundered between

his daughter and this cold, arrogant, unjust man and his haughty, evil

disposed kindred. But when he again looked for the daughter on whom

his hasty act had doubtless inflicted a severe blow, she was no longer

visible.

Directly after he took the ring she had glided silently, unnoticed by

most of the company, up the stairs to the second story. Cordula von

Montfort told him this in a low tone.

Els had made no answer to her questions, but her imploring, tearful

eyes pierced the young countess to the heart. Her quick ear had caught

Siebenburg’s malicious words and Casper Eysvogel’s harsh response and,

with deep pity, she felt how keenly the poor girl must suffer.

The happiness of a whole life destroyed without any fault of her own!

From their first meeting Els had seemed to her incapable of any careless

error, and she had merely tried, by her bold, interference, to protect

her from the gossip of evil tongues. But Heinz Schorlin had just

approached and whispered that, by his knightly honour, Els was a total

stranger to him, and he only wished he might find his own dear sister at

home as pure and free from any fault.

Poor child! But the countess knew who had frustrated her intervention

in behalf of Els. It was Sir Seitz Siebenburg, “the Mustache,” whose

officious homage, at first amusing, had long since become repulsive. Her

heart shrank from the thought that, merely from vain pleasure in having

a throng of admirers, she had given this scoundrel more than one glance

of encouragement. The riding whip fairly quivered in her right hand

as, after informing Ernst Ortlieb where Els had gone, she warned the

gentlemen that it was time to depart, and Seitz Siebenburg submissively,

yet as familiarly as if he had a right to her special favour, held out

his hand in farewell.

But Countess Cordula withdrew hers with visible dislike, saying in a

tone of chilling repulse: “Remember me to your wife, Sir Knight. Tell

her to take care that her twin sons resemble their father as little as

possible.”

“Then you want to have two ardent admirers the less?” asked Siebenburg

gaily, supposing that the countess’s remark was a jest.

But when she did not, as he expected, give these insulting words an

interpretation favourable to him, but merely shrugged her shoulders

scornfully, he added, glancing fiercely at the Swiss knight:

“True, you would doubtless be better pleased should the boys grow up

to resemble the lucky Sir Heinz Schorlin, for whose sake you proved

yourself the inventor of tales more marvellous, if not more credible,

than the most skilful travelling minstrel.”

“Perhaps so,” replied the countess with contemptuous brevity. “But I

should be satisfied if the twins--and this agrees with my first wish

should grow up honest men. If you should pay me the honour of a visit

during the next few days, Sir Seitz, I could not receive it.”

With these words she turned away, paying no further heed to him, though

he called her name aloud, as if half frantic.

CHAPTER XI.

It was after midnight when the servants closed the heavy door of the

Ortlieb mansion. The late guests had left it, mounted their horses, and

ridden away together through the Frauenthor into the city.

The moon no longer lighted their way. A sultry wind had swept from

the southwest masses of grey clouds, which constantly grew denser and

darker. Heinz Schorlin did not notice it, but his follower, Biberli,

called his attention to the rising storm and entreated him to choose the

nearest road to the city. To remain outside the gate in such darkness

would be uncomfortable, nay, perhaps not without peril, but the knight

merely flung him the peevish answer, “So much the better,” and, to

Biberli’s surprise, turned into St. Klarengasse, which brought him by no

means nearer to his distant lodgings in the Bindergasse.

It was unfortunate to be warmly devoted to a master who had no fear,

whom he was obliged to serve as a messenger of love, and who now

probably scarcely knew himself whither this love would lead him.

But true and steadfast Biberli would really have followed Sir Heinz, not

only in a dangerous nocturnal ramble, but through all the terrors of.

hell. So he only glanced down at his long, lean legs, which would be

exposed here to the bites of the dogs, with whom he stood on especially

bad terms, raised his long robe higher, as the paths over which they

must pass were of doubtful cleanliness, and deemed it a good omen

when his foot struck against a stout stick, which his patron saint

had perhaps thrown in his way as a weapon. Its possession was somewhat

soothing, it is true, yet he did not regain the pleasant consciousness

of peace in which his soul had rejoiced a few short hours before.

He knew what to expect from the irritable mood into which recent events

appeared to have thrown his master. Heinz usually soon forgot any such

trivial disappointment, but the difficulty threatening himself and

Katterle was far worse--nay, might even assume terrible proportions.

These alarming thoughts made him sigh so deeply that Heinz turned

towards him.

He would gladly have relieved his own troubled breast in the same way.

Never before had the soul of this light-hearted child of good fortune

served as the arena for so fierce a struggle of contending emotions.

He loved Eva, and the image of her white, supernaturally beautiful

figure, flooded by the moonlight, still stood before him as distinctly

as when, after her disappearance, he had resolved to plead his suit

for her to her sister; but the usually reckless fellow asked himself,

shuddering, what would have happened had he obeyed Eva’s summons and

been found with her, as he had just been surprised with her sister. She

was not wholly free from guilt, for her note had really contained an

invitation to a meeting; yet she escaped. But his needless impetuosity

and her sudden appearance before the house had placed her modest,

charming sister, the betrothed bride of the gallant fellow who had

fought with him in the Marchfield, in danger of being misunderstood and

despised. If the finger of scorn were pointed at her, if a stain rested

on her fair fame, the austere Wolff Eysvogel would hardly desire to make

her his wife, and then this also would be his fault.

His kind, honest heart suffered keenly under these self-accusations, the

first which he had ever heeded.

Hitherto the volatile young fellow, who had often gaily risked his life

in battle and his last penny at the gaming table, had never thought of

seriously examining his own soul, battling by his own strength of will

against some secret longing and shunning its cause. On the contrary,

from childhood he had accustomed himself to rely on the protection and

aid of the Virgin and the saints; and when they passed the image

with the ever-burning lamp, where Katterle had just sought and found

consolation, he implored it not to let his bold intrusion into the home

of the maiden he loved bring evil upon her and her sister. He also vowed

to the convent and its saint--which, come what might, should also be

his--a rich gift whenever the Emperor or the gaming table again filled

his purse.

The thought of being burdened his whole life long with the reproach

of having made two such charming, innocent creatures miserable seemed

unendurable. He would gladly have given gold and blood to remove it.

It was too late that day, but he resolved to go to the confessional on

the morrow, for absolution had always relieved and lightened his

heart. But how trivial his errors had been! True, the wrong he had now

committed was not a mortal sin, and would hardly impose a severe penance

upon him, yet it burdened him like the most infamous crime. He did not

understand himself, and often wondered why he, reckless Heinz, thus

made a mountain out of a molehill. Yet when, after this reflection, he

uttered a sigh of relief, it seemed as if a voice within commanded him

not to think lightly of what had passed, for on that evening he had

ceased to bestow pleasure on every one, and instead of, as usual,

being helpful and agreeable, he had plunged others who had done him no

wrong--nay, perhaps a whole household, whose daughter had given him

the first love of her young heart-into misery and disgrace. Had he

considered the consequences of his act, he would still be merry Heinz.

Then he remembered how, when a boy, playing with other lads high up

among the mountains just as it was beginning to thaw, he had hurled the

work they had finished with so much toil, a snow man, down the slope,

rejoicing with his playfellows over its swift descent towards the

valley, until they noticed with what frightful speed its bulk increased

as it sped over its snowy road, till at last, like a terrible avalanche,

it swept away a herdsman’s hut--fortunately an empty one. Now, also, his

heedlessness had set in motion a mass which constantly rolled onward,

and how terrible might be the harm it would do!

If Hartmann, the Emperor’s son, were only there! He confided everything

to him, for he was sure of his silence. Both his duty as a knight and

his conscience forbade him to relate his experiences and ask counsel

from any one else.

He was still absorbed in these gloomy thoughts when, just before

reaching the Walch, he heard Biberli’s deep sigh. Here, behind and

beside the frames of the cloth weavers, stood the tents before which the

followers and soldiers of the princes and dignitaries who had come to

the Reichstag were still sitting around the camp fire, carousing and

laughing.

Any interruption was welcome to him, and to Biberli it seemed like a

deliverance to be permitted to use his poor endangered tongue, for his

master had asked what grief oppressed him.

“If you desired to know what trouble did not burden my soul I could find

a speedier answer,” replied Biberli piteously. “Oh, this night, my lord!

What has it not brought upon us and others! Look at the black clouds

rising in the south. They are like the dark days impending over us poor

mortals.”

Then he confided to Heinz his fears for himself and Katterle. The

knight’s assurance that he would intercede for him and, if necessary,

even appeal to the Emperor’s favour, somewhat cheered his servitor’s

drooping spirits, it is true, but by no means restored his composure,

and his tone was lugubrious enough as he went on:

“And the poor innocent girl in the Ortlieb house! Your little lady, my

lord, broke the bread she must now eat herself, but the other, the older

E.”

“I know,” interrupted the knight sorrowfully. “But if the gracious

Virgin aids us, they will continue to believe in the wager Cordula von

Montfort----”

“She! she!” Biberli exclaimed, enthusiastically waving his stick aloft.

“The Lord created her in a good hour. Such a heart! Such friendly

kindness! And to think that she interposed so graciously for you--you,

Sir Heinz, to whom she showed the favour of combing your locks, as if

you were already her promised husband, and who afterwards, for another’s

sake, left her at the ball as if she wore a fern cap and had become

invisible. I saw the whole from the musician’s gallery. True, the

somnambulist is marvellously beautiful.”

But the knight interrupted him by exclaiming so vehemently: “Silence!”

that he paused.

Both walked on without speaking for some distance ere Heinz began again:

“Even though I live to grow old and grey, never shall I behold aught

more beautiful than the vision of that white-robed girlish figure on the

stairs.”

True and steadfast Biberli sighed faintly. Love for Eva Ortlieb held

his master as if in a vise; but a Schorlin seemed to him far too good a

match for a Nuremberg maiden who had grown up among sacks of pepper and

chests of goods and, moreover, was a somnambulist. He looked higher for

his Heinz, and had already found the right match for him. So, turning to

him again, he said earnestly:

“Drive the bewitching vision from your mind, Sir Heinz. You don’t

know--but I could tell you some tales about women who walk in their

sleep by moonlight.”

“Well?” asked Heinz eagerly.

“As a maiden,” Biberli continued impressively, with the pious intention

of guarding his master from injury, “the somnambulist merely runs the

risk of falling from the roof, or whatever accident may happen to a

sleepwalker; but if she enters the estate of holy matrimony, the evil

power which has dominion over her sooner or later transforms her at

midnight into a troll, which seizes her husband’s throat in his sleep

and strangles him.”

“Nursery tales!” cried Heinz angrily, but Biberli answered calmly:

“It can make no difference to you what occurs in the case of such

possessed women, for henceforward the Ortlieb house will be closed

against you. And--begging your pardon--it is fortunate. For, my lord,

the horse mounted by the first Schorlin--the chaplain showed it to you

in the picture--came from the ark in which Noah saved it with the other

animals from the deluge, and the first Lady Schorlin whom the family

chronicles mention was a countess. Your ancestresses came from citadels

and castles; no Schorlin ever yet brought his bride from a tradesman’s

house. You, the proudest of them all, will scarcely think of making such

an error, though it is true--”

“Ernst Ortlieb, spite of his trade, is a man of knightly lineage, to

whom the king of arms opens the lists at every tournament!” exclaimed

Heinz indignantly.

“In the combat with blunt weapons,” replied Biberli contemptuously.

“Nay, for the jousts and single combat,” cried Heinz excitedly. “The

Emperor Frederick himself dubbed Herr Ernst a knight.”

“You know best,” replied Biberli modestly. But his coat of arms, like

his entry, smells of cloves and pepper. Here is another, however,

who, like your first ancestress, has a countess’s title, and who has a

right--My name isn’t Biberli if your lady mother at home would not be

more than happy were I to inform her that the Countess von Montfort and

the darling of her heart, which you are:

“The name of Montfort and what goes with it,” Heinz interrupted, “would

surely please those at home. But the rest! Where could a girl be found

who, setting aside Cordula’s kind heart, would be so great a contrast to

my mother in every respect?”

“Stormy mornings merge into quiet days,” said the servant. “Everything

depends, my lord, upon the heart of which you speak so slightingly--the

heart and, even above that, upon the blood. ‘Help is needed there,’

cried the kind heart just now, and then the blood did its ‘devoir’. The

act followed the desire as the sound follows the blow of the hammer,

the thunder the flash of lightning. Well for the castle that is ruled by

such a mistress! I am only the servant, and respect commands me to curb

my tongue; but to-day I had news from home through the Provost Werner,

of Lucerne, whom I knew at Stansstadt. I meant to tell you of it

over the wine at the Thirsty Troopers, but that accursed note and the

misfortune which followed prevented. It will not make either of us more

cheerful, but whoever is ordered by the leech to drink gall and wormwood

does wisely to swallow the dose at one gulp. Do you wish to empty the

cup now?”

The knight nodded assent, and Biberli went on. “Home affairs are not

going as they ought. Though your uncle’s hair is already grey, the

knightly blood in his veins makes him grasp the sword too quickly. The

quarrel about the bridge-toll has broken out again more violently than

ever. The townsfolk drove off our cattle as security and, by way of

punishment, your uncle seized the goods of their merchants, and they

came to blows. True, the Schorlin retainers forced back the men from

town with bloody heads, but if the feud lasts much longer we cannot hold

out, for the others have the money, and since the war cry has sounded

less frequently there has been no lack of men at arms who will serve any

one who pays. Besides, the townsfolk can appeal to the treaty of peace,

and if your uncle continues to seize the merchant’s wares they will

apply to the imperial magistrate, and then:

“Then,” cried Heinz eagerly, “then the time will have come for me to

leave the court and return home to look after my rights.”

“A single arm, no matter how strong it may be, can avail nothing there,

my lord,” Biberli protested earnestly. “Your Uncle Ramsweg has scarcely

his peer as a leader, but even were it not so you could not bring

yourself to send the old man home and put yourself in his place.

Besides, it would be as unwise as it is unjust. What is lacking at home

is money to pay the town what it demands for the use of the bridge, or

to increase the number of your men, and therefore:

“Well?” asked Heinz eagerly.

“Therefore seek the Countess von Montfort, who favours you above every

one else,” was the reply; “for with her all you need will be yours

without effort. Her dowry will suffice to settle twenty such bridge

dues, and if it should come to a fray, the brave huntress will ride to

the field at your side with helmet and spear. Which of the four Fs did

Countess Cordula von Montfort ever lack?”

“The four Fs?” asked Heinz, listening intently. “The Fs,” explained the

ex-pedagogue, “are the four letters which marriageable knights should

consider. They are: Family, figure, favour, and fortune. But hold your

cap on! What a hot blast this is, as if the storm were coming straight

from the jaws of hell. And the dust! Where did all these withered

leaves come from in the month of June? They are whirling about as if the

foliage had already fallen. There are big raindrops driving into my face

too B-r-r! You need all four Fs. No rain will wash a single one of them

away, and I hope it won’t efface the least word of my speech either.

What, according to human foresight, could be lacking to secure the

fairest happiness, if you and the countess--”

“Love,” replied Heinz Schorlin curtly.

“That will come of itself,” cried Biberli, as if sure of what he was

saying, “if the bride is Countess Cordula.”

“Possibly,” answered the knight, “but the heart must not be filled by

another’s image.”

Here he paused, for in the darkness he had stumbled into the ditch by

the road.

The whirlwind which preceded the bursting of the storm blew such

clouds of dust and everything it contained into their faces that it was

difficult to advance. But Biberli was glad, for he had not yet found a

fitting answer. He struggled silently on beside his master against the

wind, until it suddenly subsided, and a violent storm of rain streamed

in big warm drops on the thirsty earth and the belated pedestrians.

Then, spite of Heinz’s protestations, Biberli hurriedly snatched the

long robe embroidered with the St from his shoulders and threw it over

his master, declaring that his shirt was as safe from injury as his

skin, but the rain would ruin the knight’s delicate embroidered doublet.

Then he drew over his head the hood which hung from his coat, and

meanwhile must have decided upon an answer, for as soon as they moved on

he began again: “You must drive your love for the beautiful sleepwalker

out of your mind. Try to do so, my dear, dear master, for the sake

of your lady mother, your young sister who will soon be old enough to

marry, our light-hearted Maria, and the good old castle. For your own

happiness, your lofty career, which began so gloriously, you must hear

me! O master, my dear master, tear from your heart the image of the

little Nuremberg witch, tempting though it is, I admit. The wound will

bleed for a brief time, but after so much mirthful pleasure a fleeting

disappointment in love, I should think, would not be too hard to bear

if it will be speedily followed by the fairest and most enduring

happiness.”

Here a flash of lightning, which illumined the hospital door close

before them, and made every surrounding object as bright as day,

interrupted the affectionate entreaty of the faithful fellow, and at the

same time a tremendous peal of thunder crashed and rattled through the

air.

Master and servant crossed themselves, but Heinz exclaimed:

“That struck the tower yonder. A little farther to the left, and all

doubts and misgivings would have been ended.”

“You can say that!” exclaimed Biberli reproachfully while passing with

his master through the gate which had just been opened for an imperial

messenger. “And you dare to make such a speech in the midst of this

heavenly wrath! For the sake of a pair of lovely eyes you are ready to

execrate a life which the saints have so blessed with every gift

that thousands and tens of thousands would not give it up from sheer

gratitude and joy, even if it were not a blasphemous crime!”

Again the lightning and thunder drowned his words. Biberli’s heart

trembled, and muttering prayers beseeching protection from the avenging

hand above, he walked swiftly onward till they reached the Corn Market.

Here they were again stopped, for, notwithstanding the late hour,

a throng of people, shouting and wailing, was just pouring from the

Ledergasse into the square, headed by a night watchman provided with

spear, horn, and lantern, a bailiff, torchbearers, and some police

officers, who were vainly trying to silence the loudest outcries.

Again a brilliant flash of lightning pierced the black mass of clouds,

and Heinz, shuddering, pointed to the crowd and asked, “Do you suppose

the lightning killed the man whom they are carrying yonder?”

“Let me see,” replied Biberli, among whose small vices curiosity was by

no means the least. He must have understood news gathering thoroughly,

for he soon returned and informed Heinz, who had sought shelter from the

rain under the broad bow window of a lofty house, that the bearers were

just carrying to his parents’ home a young man whose thread of life had

been suddenly severed by a stab through the breast in a duel. After the

witnesses had taken the corpse to the leech Otto, in the Ledergasse,

and the latter said that the youth was dead, they had quickly dispersed,

fearing a severe punishment on account of the breach of the peace. The

murdered man was Ulrich Vorchtel, the oldest son of the wealthy Berthold

Vorchel, who collected the imperial taxes.

Again Heinz shuddered. He had seen the unfortunate young man the

day before yesterday at the fencing school, and yesterday, full of

overflowing mirth, at the dance, and knew that he, too, had fought in

the battle of Marchfield. His foe must have been master of the art of

wielding the sword, for the dead man had been a skilful fencer, and was

tall and stalwart in figure.

When the servant ended his story Heinz stood still in the darkness for a

time, silently listening. The bells had begun to ring, the blast of the

watchman’s horn blended with the wailing notes summoning aid, and in

two places--near the Thiergartenthor and the Frauenthor--the sky was

crimsoned by the reflection of a conflagration, probably kindled by some

flash of lightning, which flickered over the clouds, alternately rising

and falling, sometimes deeper and anon paler in hue. Throngs of people,

shouting “Fire!” pressed from the cross streets into the square. The

stillness of the night was over.

When Heinz again turned to Biberli he said in a hollow tone:

“If the earth should swallow up Nuremberg tonight it would not surprise

me. But over yonder--look, Biber, the Duke of Pomerania’s quarters in

the Green Shield are still lighted. I’ll wager that they are yet at

the gaming table. A plague upon it! I would be there, too, if my purse

allowed. I feel as if yonder dead man and his coffin were burdening my

soul. If it was really good fortune in love that snatched the zecchins

from my purse yesterday:

“Then,” cried Biberli eagerly, “to-night is the very time, ere Countess

Cordula teaches you to forget what troubles you, to win them back. The

gold for the first stake is at your disposal.”

“From the Duke of Pomerania, you think?” asked Heinz; then, in a quick,

resolute tone, added: “No! Often as the duke has offered me his purse,

I never borrow from my peers when the prospect of repayment looks so

uncertain.”

“Gently, my lord,” returned Biberli, slapping his belt importantly.

“Here is what you need for the stake as your own property. No miracles

have been wrought for us, only I forgot But look! There are the black

clouds rolling northward over the castle. That was a frightful storm!

But a spendthrift doesn’t keep house long-and the thunder has not yet

followed that last flash of lightning. There is plenty of uproar without

it. It’s hard work to hear one’s self speak amid all the ringing,

trumpeting, yelling, and shrieking. It seems as if they expected to put

out the fire with noise. The fathers of the city can attend to that.

It doesn’t appear to disturb the duke and his guests at their dice;

and here, my lord, are fifty florins which, I think, will do for the

beginning.”

Biberli handed the knight a little bag containing this sum, and when

Heinz asked in perplexity where he obtained it, the ex-schoolmaster

answered gaily: “They came just in the nick of time. I received them

from Suss, the jockey, while you were out riding this afternoon.”

“For the black?” Heinz enquired.

“Certainly, my lord. It’s a pity about the splendid stallion. But, as

you know, he has the staggers, and when I struck him on the coronet he

stood as if rooted to the earth, and the equerry, who was there, said

that the disease was proved. So the Jew silently submitted, let the

horse be led away, and paid back what we gave him. Fifty heavy florins!

More than enough for a beginning. If I may advise you, count on the two

and the five when fixed numbers are to be thrown or hit. Why? Because

you must turn your ill luck in love to advantage: and those from whom

it comes are the two beautiful Ortlieb Es, as Nuremberg folk call the

ladies Els and Eva. That makes the two. But E is the fifth letter in

the alphabet, so I should choose the five. If Biberli did not put things

together shrewdly--”

“He would be as oversharp as he has often been already,” Heinz

interrupted, but he patted Biberli’s wet arm as he spoke, and added

kindly “Yet every day proves that my Biberli is a true and steadfast

fellow; but where in the wide world did you, a schoolmaster, gain

instruction in the art of throwing the dice?”

“While we were studying in Paris, with my dead foster brother,” replied

the servant with evident emotion. “But now go up, my lord, before

the fire alarm, and I know not what else, makes the people upstairs

separate. The iron must be forged during this wild night. Only a few

drops of rain are falling. You can cross the street dry even without my

long garment.”

While speaking he divested the knight of his robe, and continued

eagerly: “Now, my lord, from the coffin, or let us say rather the leaden

weight, which oppresses your soul, let a bolt be melted that will strike

misfortune to the heart. Glittering gold has a cheering colour.”

“Stop! stop!” Heinz interrupted positively. “No good wishes on the eve

of hunting or gaming.

“But if I come bounding down the stairs of the Green Shield with a purse

as heavy as my heart is just now--why, Biberli, success puts a new face

on many things, and yours shall again look at me without anxiety.”

CHAPTER XII.

The thunderclouds had gathered in the blackest masses above the

Frauenthor and the Ortlieb mansion. Ere the storm burst the oppressive

atmosphere had burdened the hearts within as heavily as it weighed

outside upon tree, bush, and all animated creation.

In the servants’ rooms under the roof the maids slept quietly and

dreamlessly; and the men, with their mouths wide open, snored after the

labour of the day, unconscious of what was passing outside in the sky or

the events within which had destroyed the peace of their master and his

family.

The only bed unoccupied was the one in the little room next to the

stairs leading to the garret, which was occupied by Katterle. The Swiss,

kneeling before it with her face buried in the coarse linen pillow case,

alternately sobbed, prayed, and cursed herself and her recklessness.

When the gale, which preceded the thunderstorm, blew leaves and straws

in through the open window she started violently, imagining that Herr

Ortlieb had come to call her to account and her trial was to begin. The

barber’s widow, whom she had seen a few days before in the pillory,

with a stone around her neck, because she had allowed a cloth weaver’s

heedless daughter to come to her lodging with a handsome trumpeter who

belonged to the city musicians, rose before her mental vision. How the

poor thing had trembled and moaned after the executioner’s assistant

hung the heavy stone around her neck! Then, driven frantic by the jeers

and insults of the people, the missiles flung by the street boys, and

the unbearable burden, she could control herself no longer but, pouring

forth a flood of curses, thrust out her tongue at her tormentors.

What a spectacle! But ere she, Katterle, would submit to such disgrace

she would bid farewell to life with all its joys; and even to the

countryman to whom her heart clung, and who, spite of his well-proven

truth and steadfastness, had brought misery upon her.

Now the memory of the hateful word which she, too, had called to the

barber’s widow weighed heavily on her heart. Never, never again would

she be arrogant to a neighbour who had fallen into misfortune.

This vow, and many others, she made to St. Clare; then her thoughts

wandered to the city moat, to the Pegnitz, the Fischbach, and all the

other streams in and near Nuremberg, where it was possible to drown and

thus escape the terrible disgrace which threatened her. But in so doing

she had doubtless committed a heavy sin; for while recalling the Dutzen

Pond, from whose dark surface she had often gathered white water lilies

after passing through the Frauenthor into the open fields, and wondering

in what part of its reedy shore her design could be most easily

executed, a brilliant flash of lightning blazed through her room, and

at the same time a peal of thunder shook the old mansion to its

foundations.

That was meant for her and her wicked thoughts. No! For the sake of

escaping disgrace here on earth, she dared not trifle with eternal

salvation and the hope of seeing her dead mother in the other world.

The remembrance of that dear mother, who had laboured so earnestly to

train her in every good path, soothed her. Surely she was looking down

upon her and knew that she had remained upright and honest, that she

had not defrauded her employers of even a pin, and that the little fault

which was to be so grievously punished had been committed solely out

of love for her countryman, who in his truth and steadfastness meant

honestly by her. What Biberli requested her to do could be no heavy sin.

But the powers above seemed to be of a different opinion; for again a

dazzling glare of light illumined the room, and the crash and rattle of

the thunder of the angry heavens accompanied it with a deafening din.

Katterle shrieked aloud; it seemed as if the gates of hell had opened

before her, or the destruction of the world had begun.

Frantic with terror, she sprang back from the window, through which

the raindrops were already sprinkling her face. They cooled her flushed

cheeks and brought her back to reality. The offence she had just

committed was no trivial one. She, whom Herr Ortlieb, with entire

confidence, had placed in the service of the fair young girl whose

invalid mother could not care for her, had permitted herself to be

induced to persuade Eva, who was scarcely beyond childhood, to a

rendezvous with a man whom she represented to the inexperienced maiden

as a godly, virtuous knight, though she knew from Biberli how far the

latter surpassed his master in fidelity and steadfastness.

“Lead us not into temptation!” How often she had repeated the words

in the Lord’s Prayer, and now she herself had become the serpent that

tempted into sin the innocent child whom duty should have commanded her

to guard.

No, no! The guilt for which she was threatened with punishment was by no

means small, and even if her earthly judge did not call her to account,

she would go to confession to-morrow and honestly perform the penance

imposed.

Moved by these thoughts, she gazed across the courtyard to the convent.

Just at that moment the lightning again flashed, the thunder pealed, and

she covered her face with her hands. When she lowered her arms she

saw on the roof of the nuns’ granary, which adjoined the cow-stable,

a slender column of smoke, followed by a narrow tongue of flame, which

grew steadily brighter.

The lightning had set it on fire.

Sympathy for the danger and losses of others forced her own grief and

anxiety into the background and, without pausing to think, she slipped

on her shoes, snatched her shawl from the chest, and ran downstairs,

shouting: “The lightning has struck! The convent is burning!”

Just at that moment the door of the chamber occupied by the two sisters

opened, and Ernst Ortlieb, with tangled hair and pallid cheeks, came

toward her.

Within the room the dim light of the little lamp and the fiery glare of

the lightning illumined tear-stained, agitated faces.

After Heinz Schorlin had called to her, and Els had hurried to her aid,

Eva, clad in her long, plain night robe, and barefooted, just as she

had risen from her couch, followed the maid to her room. What must the

knight, who but yesterday, she knew, had looked up to her as to a saint,

think of her now?

She felt as if she were disgraced, stained with shame. Yet it was

through no fault of her own, and overwhelmed by the terrible conviction

that mysterious, supernatural powers, against which resistance was

hopeless, were playing a cruel game with her, she had felt as if the

stormy sea were tossing her in a rudderless boat on its angry surges.

Unable to seek consolation in prayer, as usual, she had given herself up

to dull despair, but only for a short time. Els had soon returned, and

the firm, quiet manner with which her prudent, helpful friend and sister

met her, and even tried to raise her drooping courage by a jest ere

she sent her to their mother’s sick room, had fallen on her soul

like refreshing dew; not because Els promised to act for her--on the

contrary, what she intended to do roused her to resistance.

She had been far too guilty and oppressed to oppose her, yet indignation

concerning the sharp words which Els had uttered about the knight,

and her intention of forbidding him the house, perhaps forever, had

stimulated her like strong acid wine.

Not until after her sister had left her did she become capable

of clearly understanding what she had felt during her period of

somnambulism.

While her mother, thanks to a narcotic, slept soundly, breathing

quietly, and in the entry below something, she knew not what, perhaps

due to her father’s return, was occurring, she sat thinking, pondering,

while an impetuous throng of rebellious wishes raised their voices,

alternately asking and denying, in her agitated breast.

How she had happened to rise from her couch and go out had vanished

utterly from her memory, but she was still perfectly conscious of her

feelings during the night walk. If hitherto she had yearned to drain

heavenly bliss from the chalice of faith, during her wanderings through

the house she had longed for nothing save to drink her fill from the cup

of earthly joy. Ardent kisses, of which she had forbidden herself even

to think, she awaited with blissful delight. Her timorous heart, held

in check by virgin modesty, accustomed to desire nothing save what she

could have confessed to her sister and the abbess, seemed as if it had

cast off every fetter and boldly resolved to risk the most daring deeds.

The somnambulist had longed for the moment when, after Heinz Schorlin’s

confession that he loved her, she could throw her arms around his neck

with rapturous gratitude.

If, while awake, she had desired only to speak to him of her saint and

of his duty to overthrow the foes of the Church, she had wished while

gazing at the moon from the stairs, and in front of the house door,

to whisper sweet words of love, listen to his, and in so doing forget

herself, the world, and everything which did not belong to him, to her,

and their love.

And she remembered this longing and yearning in a way very unlike a mere

dream. It seemed rather as if, while the moon was attracting her by its

magic power, something, which had long slumbered in the depths of her

soul, had waked to life; something, from which formerly, ere her heart

and mind had been able rightly to understand it, she had shrunk with

pious horror, had assumed a tangible form.

Now she dreaded this newly recognised sinful part of her own nature,

which she had imagined a pure vessel that had room only for what was

noble, sacred, and innocent.

She, too--she knew it now--was only a girl like those on whose desire

for love she had looked down with arrogant contempt, no bride of heaven

or saint.

She had not yet taken the veil, and it was fortunate, for what would

have become of her had she not discovered until after her profession

this part of her nature, which she thought every true nun, if she

possessed it, must discard, like the hair which was shorn from her head,

before taking the vow of the order.

During this self-inspection it became more and more evident that she was

not one person, but two in one--a twofold nature with a single body and

two distinct souls; and this conviction caused her as much pain as if

the cut which had produced the separation were still bleeding.

Just at that moment her eyes fell upon the image of the Virgin opposite,

and the usual impulse to lift her soul in prayer took possession of her

even more powerfully than a short time before.

With fervent warmth she besought her to release her from this newly

awakened nature, which surely could not be pleasing in the sight of

Heaven, and let her once more become what she was before the unfortunate

ramble in the moonlight.

But the composure she needed for prayer was soon destroyed, for the

image of the knight rose before her again and again, and it seemed as

if her own name, which he had called with such ardent longing, once more

rang in her ears.

Whoever thus raises his voice in appeal to another loves that person.

Heinz Schorlin’s love was great and sincere and, instead of heeding the

inner voice that warned her to return to prayer, she cried defiantly, “I

will not!”

She could not yet part from the man for whom her heart throbbed with

such passionate yearning, who was so brave and godly, so ardently

devoted to her.

True, it had been peacefully beautiful to dream herself into the bright

glory of heaven, yet the stormy rapture she had felt while thinking of

him and his love seemed richer and greater. She could not, would not

part from him.

Then she remembered her sister’s intention of driving Heinz--Eva already

called the knight by that name in her soliloquy--from her presence, and

the thought that she might perhaps wound him so keenly that knightly

honour would forbid his return alarmed and incensed her.

What right had Els to distrust him? A godly knight played no base game

with the chosen lady of, his heart, and that, yes, that she certainly

was, since she had named her colour to him. Nothing should separate

them. She needed him for her happiness as much as she did light and air.

Hitherto she had longed for bliss in another world, but she was so young

she probably had a long life before her, and what could existence on

earth offer if robbed of the hope of his possession?

The newly awakened part of her nature demanded its rights. It would

never again allow itself to be forced into the old slumber.

If her sister came back and boasted of having driven away the dangerous

animal forever, she would show her that she had a different opinion

of the knight, and would permit no one to interpose between them. But,

while still pondering over this plan, the door of the sick-room was

softly opened and her father beckoned to her to follow him.

Silently leading the way through the dusky corridor, no longer illumined

by the moonlight, he entered his daughter’s room before her. The lamp,

still burning there, revealed the agitated face of her sister who,

resting her chin on her hand, sat on the stool beside the spinning

wheel.

Eva’s courage, which had blazed up so brightly, instantly fell again.

“Good heavens! What has happened?” she cried in terror; but her father

answered in a hollow tone:

“For the sake of your noble sister, to whom I pledged my word, I will

force myself to remain calm. But look at her! Her poor heart must be

like a graveyard, for she was doomed to bury what she held dearest. And

who,” he continued furiously, so carried away by grief and indignation

as to be unmindful of his promise to maintain his composure, “who is to

blame for it all, save you and your boundless imprudence?”

Eva, with uplifted hands, tried to explain how, unconscious of her acts,

she had walked in her sleep down the stairs and out of the house, but he

imperiously cut her short with:

“Silence! I know all. My daughter gave a worthless tempter the right

to expect the worst from her. You, whom we deemed the ornament of this

house, whose purity hitherto was stainless, are to blame if people

passing on the street point at it! Alas! alas! Our honour, our ancient,

unsullied name!”

Groaning aloud, the father struck his brow with his clenched hand; but

when Els rose and passed her arm around his shoulders to speak words

of consolation, Eva, who hitherto had vainly struggled for words, could

endure no more.

“Whoever says that of me, my father,” she exclaimed with flashing eyes;

scarcely able to control her voice, “has opened his ears to slander;

and whoever terms Heinz Schorlin a worthless tempter, is blinded by a

delusion, and I call him to his face, even were it my own father, to

whom I owe gratitude and respect--”

But here she stopped and extended her arms to keep off the deeply

angered man, for he had started forward with quivering lips, and--she

perceived it clearly--was already under the spell of one of the terrible

fits of fury which might lead him to the most unprecedented deeds.

Els, however, had clung to him and, while holding him back with all her

strength, cried out in a tone of keen reproach, “Is this the way you

keep your promise?”

Then, lowering her voice, she continued with loving entreaty: “My dear,

dear father, can you doubt that she was asleep, unconscious of her acts,

when she did what has brought so much misery upon us?”

And, interrupting herself, she added eagerly in a tone of the firmest

conviction: “No, no, neither shame nor misery has yet touched you, my

father, nor the poor child yonder. The suspicion of evil rests on me,

and me alone, and if any one here must be wretched it is I.”

Then Herr Ernst, regaining his self-control, drew back from Eva, but the

latter, as if fairly frantic, exclaimed: “Do you want to drive me out of

my senses by your mysterious words and accusations? What, in the name

of all the saints, has happened that can plunge my Els into misery and

shame?”

“Into misery and shame,” repeated her father in a hollow tone, throwing

himself into a chair, where he sat motionless, with his face buried in

his hands, while Els told her sister what had occurred when she went

down into the entry to speak to the knight.

Eva listened to her story, fairly gasping for breath. For one brief

moment she cherished the suspicion that Cordula had not acted from pure

sympathy, but to impose upon Heinz Schorlin a debt of gratitude which

would bind him to her more firmly. Yet when she heard that her father

had given back his daughter’s ring to Herr Casper Eysvogel and broken

his child’s betrothal she thought of nothing save her sister’s grief

and, sobbing aloud, threw herself into Els’s arms.

The girls held each other in a close embrace until the first flash of

lightning and peal of thunder interrupted the conversation.

The father and daughters had been so deeply agitated that they had

not heard the storm rising outside, and the outbreak of the tempest

surprised them. The peal of thunder, which so swiftly followed the

lightning, also startled them and when, soon after, a second one shook

the house with its crashing, rattling roar, Herr Ernst went out to wake

the chief packer. But old Endres was already keeping watch among the

wares entrusted to him and when, after a brief absence, the master of

the house returned, he found Eva again clasped in her sister’s arms,

and saw the latter kissing her brow and eyes as she tenderly strove to

comfort her.

But Eva seemed deaf to her soothing words. Els, her faithful Els, was no

longer the betrothed bride of her Wolff; her great, beautiful happiness

was destroyed forever. On the morrow all Nuremberg would learn that Herr

Casper had broken his son’s betrothal pledge, because his bride, for the

sake of a tempter, Sir Heinz Schorlin, had failed to keep her troth with

him.

How deeply all this pierced Eva’s heart! how terrible was the torture

of the thought that she was the cause of this frightful misfortune!

Dissolved in an agony of tears, she entreated the poor girl to forgive

her; and Els did so willingly, and in a way that touched her father to

the very depths of his heart. How good the girls must be who, spite of

the sore suffering which one had brought upon the other, were still so

loving and loyal!

Convinced that Eva, too, had done nothing worthy of punishment, he went

towards them to clasp both in his arms, but ere he could do so the clap

of thunder which had frightened Katterle so terribly shook the whole

room. “St. Clare, aid us!” cried Eva, crossing herself and falling upon

her knees; but Els rushed to the window, opened it, and looked down the

street. Nothing was visible there save a faint red glow on the distant

northern horizon, and two mailed soldiers who were riding into the city

at a rapid trot. They had been sent from the stables in the Marienthurm

to keep order in case a fire should break out. Several men with hooks

and poles followed, also hurrying to the Frauenthor.

In reply to the question where the fire was and where they going, they

answered: “To the Fischbach, to help. Flames have burst out apparently

under the fortress at the Thiergartenthor.”

The long-drawn call for help from the warder’s horn, which came at the

same moment, proved that the men were right.

Herr Ernst hastened out of the room just as Katterle’s shriek, “The

lightning struck! the convent is burning!” rung from the upper step of

the stairs.

He had already pronounced her sentence, and the sight of her roused his

wrath again so vehemently that, spite of the urgent peril, he shouted to

her that, whatever claimed his attention now, she certainly should not

escape the most severe punishment for her shameful conduct.

Then he ordered old Endres and two of the menservants to watch the

sleeping-room of his invalid wife, that in case anything should happen

the helpless woman might be instantly borne to a place of safety.

Ere he himself went to the scene of the conflagration he hurried back to

his daughters.

While the girls were giving him his hat and cloak he told them where the

fire had broken out, and this caused another detention of the anxious

master of the house, for Eva seized her shoes and stockings and, kicking

her little slippers from her feet, declared that she, too, would not

remain absent from the place when her dear nuns were in danger. But her

father commanded her to stay with her mother and sister, and went to the

door, turning back once more on the threshold to his daughters with the

anxious entreaty: “Think of your mother!”

Another peal of thunder drowned the sound of his footsteps hurrying down

the stairs. When Els, who had watched her father from the window a short

time, went back to her sister, Eva dried her eyes and cheeks, saying:

“Perhaps he is right; but whenever my heart urges me to obey any warm

impulse, obstacles are put in my way. What a weak nonentity is the

daughter of an honourable Nuremberg family!”

Els heard this complaint with astonishment. Was this her Eva, her

“little saint,” who yesterday had desired nothing more ardently than

with humble obedience, far from the tumult of the world, to become

worthy of her Heavenly Bridegroom, and in the quiet peace of the convent

raise her soul to God? What had so changed the girl in these few hours?

Even the most worldly-minded of her friends would have taken such an

impeachment ill.

But she had no time now to appeal to the conscience of her misguided

sister. Love and duty summoned her to her mother’s couch. And then!

The child had become aware of her love, and was she, Els, who had been

parted from Wolff by her own father, and yet did not mean to give him

up, justified in advising her sister to cast aside her love and the hope

of future happiness with and through the man to whom she had given her

heart?

What miracles love wrought! If in a single night it had transformed the

devout future Bride of Heaven into an ardently loving woman, it could

accomplish the impossible for her also.

While Eva was gazing out of the window Els returned to her mother. She

was still asleep and, without permitting either curiosity or longing

to divert her from her duty, Els kept her place beside the couch of the

beloved invalid, spite of the fire alarm which, though somewhat subdued,

was heard in the room.

CHAPTER XIII.

Eva was standing at the open window. The violence of the storm seemed

exhausted. The clouds were rolling northward, and the thunder followed

the flashes of lightning at longer and longer intervals. Peace was

restored to the heavens, but the crowd and noise in the city and the

street constantly increased.

The iron tongues of the alarm bells had never swung so violently, the

warder’s horn had never made the air quiver with such resonant appeals

for aid.

Nor did the metallic voices above call for help in vain, for while a

roseate glow tinged the linden in front of her window and the houses

on the opposite side of the street with the hues of dawn, the crowds

thronging from the Frauenthor to St. Klarengasse grew denser and denser.

The convent was not visible from her chamber, but the acrid odor of

the smoke and the loud voices which reached her ear from that direction

proved that the fire was no trivial one. While she was seeking out the

spot from which Heinz must have looked up to her window, the Ortlieb

menservants, with some of the Montfort retainers, came out of the house

with pails and ladders.

A female figure glided into the dark street after them. A black shawl

concealed her head and the upper part of her figure, and she held a

bundle in her hand.

It must be Katterle.

Where was she going at this hour? As she was carrying the package, she

could scarcely intend to help in putting out the fire. Was she stealing

away from fear of punishment? Poor thing! Even the maid was hurled into

misfortune through her guilt.

It pierced her very heart. But while she called to Katterle to stop

her, something else, which engrossed her still more, diverted her

attention--the loud voice of Countess Cordula reached her from the

street door. With whom was she talking? Did the girl, who ventured upon

so many things which ill-beseemed a modest maiden, intend to join the

men? Eva forgot that she, too, would have hurried to the nuns had

not her father prevented it. The countess was already standing in the

courtyard.

After Eva had given her a hasty glance she again looked for the maid,

but Katterle had already vanished in the darkness. This grieved her; she

had neglected something which might have saved the girl, to whom she

was warmly attached, from some imprudent act. But while attracted by the

strange appearance of the countess she had forgotten the other.

Cordula had probably just left her couch, for she wore only a plain

dress tucked up very high, short boots, which she probably used in

hunting, and a shawl crossed over her bosom; another was wound round

her head in the fashion of the peasant women who brought their goods to

market on cold winter days. No farmer’s wife could be more simply clad,

and yet--Eva was forced to admit it--there was something aristocratic in

her firm bearing.

Her companions were her father’s chaplain and the equerry who had

grown grey in his service. Both were trying to dissuade her. The former

pointed to a troop of women who were following the chief of police and

some city constables, and said warningly: “Those are all wanton queans,

whom the law of this city compels to lend their aid in putting out

fires. How would it beseem your rank to join these who shame their

sex----No, no! It would be said to-morrow that the ornament of the house

of Montfort had----”

“That Countess Cordula had used her hands in extinguishing the fire,”

she interrupted with gay self-confidence. “Is there any disgrace in

that? Must my noble birth debar me from being numbered among those who

help their neighbours so far as lies in their power? If any good is

accomplished here, those poor women yonder will make it no worse by

their aid. If people here believe that they do, it will give me double

pleasure to ennoble it by working with them. Putting out the flames will

not degrade me, and will make the women better. So, forward! See how the

fire is blazing yonder! Help is needed there and, thank Heaven, I am no

weakling. Besides, there are women who want assistance and, to women in

peril, the most welcome aid is woman’s.”

The old equerry, his eyes glittering with tears, nodded assent, and

led the way into the street; but the countess, instead of following

instantly, glanced back for the page who was to carry the bandages which

she had learned to use among her retainers at home. The agile boy did

not delay her long; but while his mistress was looking to see that he

had forgotten nothing of importance, he perceived at the window

Eva, whose beauty had long since fired his young heart, and cast a

languishing glance at her. Then Cordula also noticed her and called a

pleasant greeting. Eva was on the point of answering in the same tone,

when she remembered that Cordula had spoken of Heinz Schorlin in the

presence of others as if he were awaiting her in all submission. Anger

surged hotly in her breast, and she drew back into the room as if she

had not heard the salutation.

The countess perceived it, and shrugged her shoulders pityingly.

Eva, dissatisfied with herself, continued to gaze down into the street

long after the crowds of people flocking from the city had concealed

Cordula from her eyes. It seemed as though she would never again succeed

in anything that would bring contentment. Never had she felt so weak, so

ill-tempered, so devoid of self-reliance. Yet she could not, as usual,

seek consolation with her saint. There was so much here below to divert

her attention.

The roseate glow on the linden had become a crimson glare, the

flickering light on the opposite walls a dazzling illumination. The

wind, now blowing from the west, bore from St. Klarengasse burning

objects which scattered sparks around them--bundles of hay caught by the

flames--from the convent barn to the Marienthurm opposite, and into the

street. Besides, the noise above and behind, before and below her, grew

louder and louder. The ringing of the bells and the blare of trumpets

from the steeples continued, and with this constant ringing, pealing,

and crashing from above, mingled the high, clear voices of the choir of

nuns in the convent, beseeching in fervent litanies the help of their

patron saint. True, the singing was often drowned by the noise from the

street, for the fire marshals and quartermasters had been informed

in time, and watchmen, soldiers in the pay of the city, men from the

hospital, and the abandoned women (required by law to help put out

the fires) came in little groups, while bailiffs and servants of the

Council, barbers (who were obliged to lend their aid, but whose surgical

skill could find little employment here), members of the Council,

priests and monks arrived singly. The street also echoed with the

trampling of many steeds, for mounted troopers in coats of mail first

dashed by to aid the bailiffs in maintaining order, then the inspector

of water works, with his chief subordinate, trotted along to St.

Klarengasse on the clumsy horses placed at their disposal by the

Council in case of fire. He was followed by the millers, with brass fire

engines. While their well-fed nags drew on sledges, with little noise,

through the mire of the streets now softened by the rain, the heavy

wooden water barrels needed in the work of extinguishing the flames,

there was a loud rattling and clanking as the carts appeared on which

the men from the Public Works building were bringing large and small

ladders, hooks and levers, pails and torches, to the scene of the

conflagration.

Besides those who were constrained by the law, many others desired to

aid the popular Sisters of St. Clare and thereby earn a reward from God.

A brewer had furnished his powerful stallions to convey to the scene

of action, with their tools, the eight masons whose duty it was to use

their skill in extinguishing the flames. All sorts of people--men and

women--followed, yelling and shrieking, to seek their own profit during

the work of rescue. But the bailiffs kept a sharp eye on them, and made

way when the commander of the German knights, with several companions on

whose black mantles the white cross gleamed, appeared on horseback, and

at last old Herr Berthold Vorchtel trotted up on his noble grey, which

was known to the whole city. He still had a firm seat in the saddle,

but his head was bowed, and whoever knew that only one hour before

the corpse of his oldest son, slain in a duel, had been brought home,

admired the aged magistrate’s strength of will. As First Losunger and

commander in chief he was the head of the Council, and therefore of the

city also. Duty had commanded him to mount his steed, but how pale and

haggard was his shrewd face, usually so animated!

Just in front of the Ortlieb mansion the commander of the German knights

rode to his side, and Eva saw how warmly he shook him by the hand, as if

he desired to show the old man very cordially his deep sympathy in some

sore trouble which had assailed him.

Ever since Wolff’s betrothal to Els had been announced the Vorchtels

had ceased to be on terms of intimacy with the Ortliebs; but old Herr

Berthold, though he himself had probably regarded young Eysvogel as his

“Ursel’s” future husband, had always treated Eva kindly, and she was

not mistaken--tears were glittering on his cheeks in the torchlight. The

sight touched the young girl’s inmost heart. How eagerly she desired to

know what had befallen the Vorchtels, and to give the old man some token

of sympathy! What could have caused him so much sorrow? Only a few hours

before her father had returned from a gay entertainment at his house.

It could scarcely concern Herr Berthold’s wife, his daughter Ursula, or

either of his two vigorous sons. Perhaps death had only bereft him of

some more distant, though beloved relative, yet surely she would have

known that, for the Ortliebs were connected by marriage both with the

old gentleman and his wife.

Tortured by a presentiment of evil, Eva gazed after him, and also

watched for Heinz Schorlin among the people in the street. Must not

anxiety for her bring him hither, if he learned how near her house the

fire was burning?

Whenever a helmet or knight’s baret appeared above the crowd she thought

that he was coming. Once she believed that she had certainly recognised

him, for a tall young man of knightly bearing appeared, not mounted, but

on foot, and stopped opposite to the Ortlieb house. That must be he! But

when he looked up to her window, the reflection of the fire showed that

the man who had made her heart beat so quickly was indeed a young and

handsome knight, but by no means the person for whom she had mistaken

him. It was Boemund Altrosen, famed as victor in many a tournament,

who when a boy had often been at the house of her uncle, Herr Pfinzing.

There was no mistaking his coal-black, waving locks. It was said that

the dark-blue sleeve of a woman’s robe which he wore on his helmet in

the jousts belonged to the Countess von Montfort. She was his lady, for

whom he had won so many victories.

Heinz Schorlin had mentioned him at the ball as his friend, and told

her that the gallant knight would vainly strive to win the reckless

countess. Perhaps he was now looking at the house so intently on

Cordula’s account. Or had Heinz, his friend, sent him to watch over her

while he was possibly detained by the Emperor?

But, no; he had just gone nearer to the house to question a man in the

von Montfort livery, and the reply now led him to move on towards the

convent.

Were the tears which filled Eva’s eyes caused by the smoke that

poured from the fire more and more densely into the street, or to

disappointment and bitter anguish?

The danger which threatened her aunt and her beloved nuns also increased

her excitement. True, the sisters themselves seemed to feel safe, for

snatches of their singing were still audible amid the ringing of the

bells and the blare of the trumpets, but the fire must have been very

hard to extinguish. This was proved by the bright glow on the linden

tree and the shouts of command which, though unintelligible, rose above

every other sound.

The street below was becoming less crowded. Most of those who had

left their beds to render aid had already reached the scene of the

conflagration. Only a few stragglers still passed through the open gate

towards the Marienthurm. Among them were horsemen, and Eva’s heart again

throbbed more quickly, but only for a short time. Heinz Schorlin was far

taller than the man who had again deceived her, and his way would hardly

have been lighted by two mounted torch bearers. Soon her rosy lips even

parted in a smile, for the sturdy little man on the big, strong-boned

Vinzgau steed, whom she now saw distinctly, was her dearest relative,

her godfather, the kind, shrewd, imperial magistrate, Berthold Pfinzing,

the husband of her father’s sister, good Aunt Christine.

If he looked up he would tell her about old Herr Vorchtel. Nor did he

ride past his darling’s house without a glance at her window, and when

he saw Eva beckon he ordered the servants to keep back, and stopped

behind the chains.

After he had briefly greeted his niece and she had enquired what had

befallen the Vorchtels, he asked anxiously: “Then you know nothing yet?

And Els--has it been kept from her, too?”

“What, in the name of all the saints?” asked Eva, with increasing alarm.

Then Herr Pfinzing, who saw that the door of the house was open, asked

her to come down. Eva was soon standing beside her godfather’s big

bay, and while patting the smooth neck of the splendid animal he said

hurriedly, in a low tone: “It’s fortunate that it happened so. You

can break it gradually to your sister, child. To-night Summon up your

courage, for there are things which even a man--To make the story short,

then: Tonight Wolff Eysvogel and young Vorchtel quarreled, or rather

Ulrich irritated your Wolff so cruelly that he drew his sword--”

“Wolff!” shrieked Eva, whose hand had already dropped from the horse.

“Wolff! He is so terribly strong, and if he drew his sword in anger----”

“He dealt his foe one powerful thrust,” replied the imperial magistrate

with an expressive gesture. “The sword pierced him through. But I must

go on Only this one thing more: Ulrich was borne back to his parents as

a corpse. And Wolff Where is he hiding? May the saints long be the only

ones who know! A quarrel with such a result under the Emperor’s eyes,

now when peace has just been declared throughout the land! Who knows

what sentence will be pronounced if the bailiffs show themselves

shrewder this time than usual! My office compelled me to set the pack

upon him. That is the reason I am so late. Tell Els as cautiously as

possible.”

He bowed gallantly and trotted on, but Eva, as if hunted by enemies,

rushed up the staircase, threw herself on her knees before the prie

dieu, and sobbed aloud.

Young Vorchtel had undoubtedly heard of the events in the entry, taunted

Wolff with his betrothed bride’s nocturnal interview with a knight, and

thus roused the strong man to fury. How terrible it all was! How could

she bear it! Her thoughtlessness had cost a human life, robbed parents

of their son! Through her fault her sister’s betrothed husband, whom

she also loved, was in danger of being placed under ban, perhaps even of

being led to the executioner’s block!

She had no thought of any other motive which might have induced the

hot-blooded young men to cross swords and, firmly convinced that her

luckless letter had drawn Heinz Schorlin to the house and thus led to

all these terrible things, she vainly struggled for composure.

Sometimes she beheld in imagination the despairing Els; sometimes the

aged Vorchtels, grieving themselves to death; sometimes Wolff, outlawed,

hiding like a hunted deer in the recesses of the forest; sometimes the

maid, fleeing with her little bundle into the darkness of the night;

sometimes the burning convent; and at intervals also Heinz Schorlin,

as he knelt before her and raised his clasped hands with passionate

entreaty.

But she repelled every thought of him as a sin, and even repressed the

impulse to look out into the street to seek him. Her sole duty now

was to pray to her patron saint and the Mother of God in behalf of her

sister, whom she had hurled into misfortune, and her poor heart bleeding

from such deep wounds; but the consolation which usually followed the

mere uplifting of her soul in prayer did not come, and it could not

be otherwise, for amid her continual looking into her own heart and

listening to what went on around her no real devotion was possible.

Although she constantly made fresh efforts to collect her thoughts,

and continued to kneel with clasped hands before the prie dieu, not a

hoof-beat, not a single loud voice, escaped her ear. Even the alternate

deepening and paling of the reflection of the fire, which streamed

through the window, attracted her attention, and the ringing of bells

and braying of trumpets, which still continued, maintained the agitation

in her soul.

Yet prayer was the sole atonement she could make for the wrong she had

done her sister; so she did not cease her endeavours to plead for her to

the Great Helper above, but her efforts were futile. Yet even when she

heard voices close by the house, among which she distinguished Countess

Cordula’s and--if she was not mistaken--her father’s, she resisted the

impulse to rise from her knees.

At last the vain struggle was ended by an interruption from without.

After unusually loud voices exclaiming and questioning had reached her

from the entry, the door of her chamber suddenly opened and old Martsche

looked in. The housekeeper was seeking something; but when she found the

devout child on her knees she did not wish to disturb her, and contented

herself with the evidence of her eyes. But Eva stopped her, and learned

that she was searching for Katterle, who could neither be found in her

room, or anywhere else. Herr Ortlieb had brought Countess von Montfort

home severely burned, and there were all sorts of things for the maid to

do.

Eva clung shuddering to the back of the prie dieu, for the certainty

that the unfortunate girl had really fled was like strewing salt on her

wounds.

When Martsche left her and Els entered, her excitement had risen to such

a pitch that she flung herself before her, as if frantic and, clinging

to her knees, heaping self-accusations upon herself with passionate

impetuosity, she pleaded, amid her sobs, for pardon and mercy.

Meanwhile Els had been informed by her father of her lover’s fatal deed,

and as soon as she perceived what tortured her sister she relieved her,

with loving words of explanation, from the reproach of being the cause

of this misfortune also, for the quarrel had taken place so early that

no tidings of the meeting in the entry could have reached young Vorchtel

when he became involved in the fray with Wolff.

Nor was it solely to soothe Eva that she assured her that, deeply as she

mourned the death of the hapless Ulrich and his parents’ grief, Wolff’s

deed could not diminish either her love or her hope of becoming his.

Eva listened to this statement with sparkling eyes. The love in her

sister’s heart was as immovably firm as the ancient stones of her native

stronghold, which defied every storm, and on which even the destroying,

kindling lightning could inflict no injury. This made her doubly

dear, and from the depths of dull despair her soul, ever prone to soar

upwards, rose swiftly to the heights of hopeful exaltation.

When Els at last entreated her to go to rest without her, she willingly

consented, for her mother was comfortable, and Sister Renata was

watching at her bedside.

Eva kept her promise, after Els, who wanted to see the Countess von

Montfort, had satisfied her concerning the welfare of the nuns and

promised to go to rest herself as soon as possible.

The stopping of the alarm bells proved that the fire was under control.

Even its reflection had disappeared, but the eastern sky was beginning

to be suffused with a faint tinge of rose colour.

When her sister left her Eva herself drew the curtains before the

window, and sleep soon ended her thoughts and yearnings, her grief and

her hope.

CHAPTER XIV.

Countess Cordula von Montfort’s room faced the east and looked out into

the garden. The sun of the June morning had just risen, filling it with

cheerful light.

The invalid’s maid had wished to deny Els admittance, but the countess

called eagerly to her, and then ordered the windows to be opened,

because she never felt comfortable unless it was light around her and

she could breathe God’s pure air.

The morning breeze bore the smoke which still rose from the fire in

another direction, and thus a refreshing air really entered the room

from the garden, for the thunderstorm had refreshed all nature, and

flower beds and grass, bush and tree, exhaled a fresh odour of earth and

leafage which it was a delight to breathe.

The leech Otto, to whom the severely wounded Ulrich Vorchtel had been

carried, had just left the countess. The burns on her hands and arms had

been bandaged--nay, the old gentleman had cut out the scorched portions

of her tresses with his own hand. Cordula’s energetic action had made

the famous surgeon deem her worthy of such care. He had also advised her

to seek the nursing of the oldest daughter of her host, whose invalid

wife he was attending, and she had gladly assented; for Els had

attracted her from their first meeting, and she was accustomed to begin

the day at sunrise.

“How does it happen that you neither weep nor even hang your head after

all the sorrow which last night brought you?” asked Cordula, as the

Nuremberg maiden sat down beside her bed. “You are a stranger to the

Swiss knight, and when we surprised you with him you had not come to a

meeting--I know that full well. But if so true and warm a love unites

you to young Eysvogel, how does it happen that your joyous courage is so

little damped by his father’s denial and his own unhappy deed, which at

this time could scarcely escape punishment? You do not seem frivolous,

and yet--”

“Yet,” replied Els with a pleasant smile, “many things have made a

deeper impression. We are not all alike, Countess, yet there is much

in your nature which must render it easy for you to understand me; for,

Countess----”

“Call me Cordula,” interrupted the girl in a tone of friendly entreaty.

“Why should I deny that I am fond of you? and at the risk of making you

vain, I will betray----”

“Well?” asked Els eagerly.

“That the splendid old leech described you to me exactly as I had

imagined you,” was the reply. “You were one of those, he said, whose

mere presence beside a sick-bed was as good as medicine, and so you are;

and, dear Jungfrau Els, this salutary medicine benefits me.”

“If I am to dispense with the ‘Countess,’” replied the other, “you must

spare me the ‘Jungfrau.’ Nursing you will give me all the more pleasure

on account of the warm gratitude----”

“Never mind that,” interrupted Cordula. “But please look at the bandage,

beneath which the flesh burns and aches more than is necessary, and then

go on with your explanation.”

Els examined the countess’s arm, and then applied a household remedy

whose use she had learned from the wife of Herr Pfinzing, her Aunt

Christine, who was familiar with the healing art. It relieved the pain,

and when Cordula told her so, Els went on with her explanation.

“When all these blows fell upon me, they at first seemed, indeed,

unprecedented and scarcely possible to endure. When afterwards my

Wolff’s unhappy deed was added, I felt as though I were standing in a

dense, dark mist, where each step forwards must lead me into a stifling

morass or over a precipice. Then I began to reflect upon what had

happened, as is my custom; I separated, in my thoughts, the evil

menacing in the future from the good, and had scarcely made a little

progress in this way when morass and abyss lost their terrors; both, I

found, could be left to take care of themselves, since neither Wolff nor

I lack love and good will, and we possess some degree of prudence and

caution.”

“Yes, this thinking and considering!” cried the countess, with a faint

sigh. “It succeeds in my case, too, only, unluckily, I usually don’t

begin until it is too late and the folly has been committed.”

“Then, henceforth, you must reverse the process,” answered Els cheerily.

But directly after she changed her tone, which sounded serious enough as

she added: “The sorrow of the poor Vorchtels and the grief my betrothed

husband must endure, because the dead man was once a dear friend,

certainly casts a dark shadow upon many things; but you, who love the

chase, must surely be familiar with the misty autumn mornings to which

I allude. Everything, far and near, is covered by a thick veil, yet

one feels that there is bright sunshine behind it. Suddenly the mist

scatters----”

“And mountain and forest, land and water, lie before us in the radiant

sunlight!” cried the countess. “How well I know such scenes! And how I

should rejoice if a favourable wind would sweep the grey mist away for

you right speedily! Only--indeed, I am not disposed to look on the dark

side--only, perhaps you do not know how resolute the Emperor is that the

peace of the country shall be maintained. If your lover allowed himself

to be carried away----”

“This was not the first time,” Els eagerly interrupted, “that young

Vorchtel tried to anger him in the presence of others; and he believed

that he was justified in bearing a grudge against his former friend--it

was considered a settled thing that Wolff and his sister Ursula were to

marry.”

“Until,” Cordula broke in, “he gazed into your bright eyes.”

“How could you know that?” asked Els in confusion.

“Because, in love and hate, as well as in reckoning, two and three

follow one,” laughed the countess. “As for your Wolff, in particular, I

will gladly believe, with you, that he can succeed in clearing himself

before the judges. But with regard to old Eysvogel, who looks as though,

if he met our dear Lord Himself, he would think first which of the two

was the richer, your future brother-in-law Siebenburg, that disagreeable

‘Mustache,’ and his poor wife, who sits at home grieving over her

dissolute husband--what gratitude you can expect from such kindred--”

“None,” replied Els sadly. Yet a mischievous smile hovered around her

lips as, bending over the invalid, she added in a whisper: “But the

good I expect from all the evil is, that we and the Eysvogels will be

separated as if by wall and moat. They will never cross them, but Wolff

would find the way back to me, though we were parted by an ocean, and

mountains towering to the sky divided----”

“This confidence, indeed, maintains the courage,” said the countess, and

with a faint sigh she added: “Whatever evil may befall you, many might

envy you.”

“Then love has conquered you also?” Els began; but Cordula answered

evasively:

“Let that pass, dear Jungfrau. Perhaps love treats me as a mother deals

with a froward child, because I asked too much of her. My life has

become an endless battue. Much game of all kinds is thus driven out

to be shot, but the sportsman finds true pleasure only in tracking the

single heathcock, the solitary chamois. Yet, no,” and in her eagerness

she flung her bandaged hand so high into the air that she groaned with

pain and was forced to keep silence. When able to speak once more, still

tortured by severe suffering, she exclaimed angrily: “No, I want neither

driving nor stalking. What do I care for the prey? I am a woman, too. I

would fain be the poor persecuted game, which the hunter pursues at the

risk of breaking his bones and neck. It must be delightful; one would

willingly bear the pain of a wound for its sake. I don’t mean these

pitiful burns, but a deep and deadly one.”

“You ought to have spared yourself these,” said Els in a tone of

affectionate warning. “Consider what you are to your father, and how

your suffering pains him! To risk a precious human life for the sake of

a stupid brute--”

“They call it a sin, I know,” Cordula burst forth. “And yet I would

commit the same tomorrow at the risk of again--Oh, you cautious city

people, you maidens with snow-white hands! What do you know of a girl

like me? You cannot even imagine what my child life was; and yet it is

told in a single word--motherless! I was never permitted to see her, to

hear her dear, warning voice. She paid with her own life for giving

me mine. My father? How kind he is! He meant to supply his dead wife’s

place by anticipating my every wish. Had I desired to feast my eyes on

the castle in flames, it would, perhaps, now lie in ashes. So I became

what I am. True--and this is something--I grew to be at least one

person’s joy--his. No, no, at home there are others also, though they

dwell in wretched hovels, who would gladly welcome me back. But except

these, who will ask about the reckless countess? I myself do not care to

linger long when the mirror shows me my image. Do you wish to know what

this has to do with the fire? Much; for otherwise I should scarcely have

been wounded. The lightning had struck only the convent barn; the cow

stable, when we arrived, was still safe, but the flames soon reached

it also. Neither the nuns nor the men had thought of driving the cattle

out. Poor city cattle! In the country the animals have more friendly

care. When the work of rescue was at last commenced the cows naturally

refused to leave their old home. Some prudent person had torn the door

off the hinges that they might not stifle. Just in front of it stood a

pretty red cow with a white star on her face. A calf was by her side,

and the mother had already sunk on her knees and was licking it in

mortal terror. I pitied the poor thing, and as Boemund Altrosen, the

black-haired knight who entered your house with the rest after the ride

to Kadolzburg, had just come there, I told him to save the calf. Of

course he obeyed my wish, and as it struggled he dragged it out of the

stable with his strong arms. The building was already blazing, and the

thatched roof threatened to fall in. Just at that moment the old cow

looked at me so piteously and uttered such a mournful bellow that it

touched me to the heart. My eyes rested on the calf, and a voice within

whispered that it would be motherless, like me, and miss during the

first part of its life God’s best gift. But since, as you have heard,

I act before I think, I went myself--I no longer know how--into the

burning stable. It was hard to breathe in the dense smoke, and fiery

sparks scorched my shawl and my hair, but I was conscious of one

thought: You must save the helpless little creature’s mother! So I

called and lured her, as I do at home, where all the cows are fond of

me, but it was useless; and just as I perceived this the thatched roof

fell in, and I should probably have perished had not Altrosen this time

carried my own by no means light figure out of the stable instead of the

calf.”

“And you?” asked Els eagerly.

“I submitted,” replied the countess.

“No, no,” urged Els. “Your heart throbbed faster with grateful joy,

for you saw the desire of your soul fulfilled. A hunter, and one of

the noblest of them all, risked his life in the pursuit of your love.

O Countess Cordula, I remember that knight well, and if the dark-blue

sleeve which he wore on his helm in the tournament was yours--”

“I believe it was,” Cordula interrupted indifferently. “But, what was

of more importance, when I opened my eyes again the cow was standing

outside, licking her recovered calf.”

“And the knight?” asked Els. “Whoever so heroically risks his life for

his lady’s wish should be sure of her gratitude.”

“Boemund can rely on that,” said Cordula positively. “At least, what

he did this time for my sake weighs more heavily in the scale than

the lances he has broken, his love songs, or the mute language of

his longing eyes. Those are shafts which do not pierce my heart. How

reproachfully you look at me! Let him take lessons from his friend Heinz

Schorlin, and he may improve. Yes, the Swiss knight! He would be the

man for me, spite of your involuntary meeting with him and your devout

sister, for whom he forgot every one else, and me also, in the dancing

hall. O Jungfrau Els, I have the hunter’s eyes, which are keen-sighted!

For his sake your beautiful Eva, with her saintly gaze, might easily

forget to pray. It was not you, but she, who drew him to-night to your

house. Had this thought entered my head downstairs in the entry I

should probably, to be honest, have omitted my little fairy tale and let

matters take their course. St. Clare ought to have protected her future

votary. Besides, it pleases the arrogant little lady to show me as

plainly as possible, on every occasion, that I am a horror to her. Let

those who will accept such insults. My Christianity does not go far

enough to offer her the right cheek too. And shall I tell you something?

To spoil her game, I should be capable, in spite of all the life

preservers in the world, of binding Schorlin to me in good earnest.”

“Do not!” pleaded Els, raising her clasped hands beseechingly, and

added, as if in explanation: “For the noble Boemund Altrosen’s sake, do

not.”

“To promise that, my darling, is beyond my power,” replied Cordula

coolly, “because I myself do not know what I may do or leave undone

tomorrow or the day after. I am like a beech leaf on the stream. Let us

see where the current will carry it. It is certain,” and she looked

at her bandaged hands, “that my greatest beauty, my round arms, are

disfigured. Scars adorn a man; on a woman they are ugly and repulsive.

At a dance they can be hidden under tight sleeves, but how hot that

would be in the ‘Schwabeln’ and ‘Rai’! So I had better keep away from

these foolish gaieties in future. A calf turns a countess out of a

ballroom! What do you think of that? New things often happen.”

Here she was interrupted; the housekeeper called Els. Sir Seitz

Siebenburg, spite of the untimely hour, had come to speak to her about

an important matter. Her father had gone to rest and sleep. The knight

also enquired sympathisingly about Countess von Montfort and presented

his respects.

“Of which I can make no use!” cried Cordula angrily. “Tell him so,

Martsche.”

As the housekeeper withdrew she exclaimed impatiently: “How it burns!

The heat would be enough to convert the rescued calf into an appetising

roast. I wish I could sleep off the pain of my foolish prank! The

sunlight is beginning to be troublesome. I cannot bear it; it is

blinding. Draw the curtain over the window.”

Cordula’s own maid hastened to obey the order. Els helped the countess

turn on her pillows, and as in doing so she touched her arm, the

sufferer cried angrily: “Who cares what hurts me? Not even you!”

Here she paused. The pleading glance which Els had cast at her must have

pierced her soft heart, for her bosom suddenly heaved violently and,

struggling to repress her sobs, she gasped, “I know you mean kindly,

but I am not made of stone or iron either. I want to be alone and go to

sleep.”

She closed her eyes as she spoke and, when Els bent to kiss her, tears

bedewed her cheeks.

Soon after Els went down into the entry to meet her lover’s

brother-in-law. He had refused to enter the empty sitting-room. The

Countess von Montfort’s unfriendly dismissal had vexed him sorely,

yet it made no lasting impression. Other events had forced into the

background the bitter attack of Cordula, for whom he had never felt any

genuine regard.

The experiences of the last few hours had converted the carefully

bedizened gallant into a coarse fellow, whose outward appearance bore

visible tokens of his mental depravity. The faultlessly cut garment was

pushed awry on his powerful limbs and soiled on the breast with wine

stains. The closely fitting steel chain armour, in which he had ridden

out, now hung in large folds upon his powerful frame. The long mustache,

which usually curled so arrogantly upwards, now drooped damp and limp

over his mouth and chin, and his long reddish hair fell in dishevelled

locks around his bloated face. His blue eyes, which usually sparkled so

brightly, now looked dull and bleared, and there were white spots on his

copper-coloured cheeks.

Since Countess Cordula gave him the insulting message to his wife he had

undergone more than he usually experienced in the course of years.

“An accursed night!” he had exclaimed, in reply to the housekeeper’s

question concerning the cause of his disordered appearance.

Els, too, was startled by his looks and the hoarse sound of his voice.

Nay, she even drew back from him, for his wandering glance made her fear

that he was intoxicated.

Only a short time before, it is true, he had scarcely been able to stand

erect, but the terrible news which had assailed him had quickly sobered

him.

He had come at this unwontedly early hour to enquire whether the

Ortliebs had heard anything of his brother-in-law Wolff. There was not a

word of allusion to the broken betrothal.

In return for the promise that she would let the Eysvogels know as

soon as she received any tidings of her lover, which Els gave unasked,

Siebenburg, who had always treated her repellently or indifferently,

thanked her so humbly that she was surprised. She did not know how

to interpret it; nay, she anticipated nothing good when, with urgent

cordiality, he entreated her to forget the unpleasant events of the

preceding night, which she must attribute to a sudden fit of anger

on Herr Casper’s part. She was far too dear to all the members of the

family for them to give her up so easily. What had occurred--she

must admit that herself--might have induced even her best friend to

misunderstand it. For one brief moment he, too, had been tempted to

doubt her innocence. If she knew old Eysvogel’s terrible situation she

would certainly do everything in her power to persuade her father to

receive him that morning, or--which would be still better--go to his

office. The weal and woe of many persons were at stake, her own above

all, since, as Wolff’s betrothed bride, she belonged to him inseparably.

“Even without the ring?” interrupted Els bitterly; and when Siebenburg

eagerly lamented that he had not brought it back, she answered proudly

“Don’t trouble yourself, Sir Seitz! I need this sacred pledge as little

as the man who still wears mine. Tell your kinsfolk so. I will inform my

father of Herr Casper’s wish; he is asleep now. Shall I guess aright

in believing that the other disasters which have overtaken you are

connected with the waggon trains Wolff so anxiously expected?”

Siebenburg, twirling his cap in confusion, assented to her question,

adding that he knew nothing except that they were lost and, after

repeating his entreaty that she would accomplish a meeting between the

two old gentlemen, left her.

It would indeed have been painful for him to talk with Els, for a

messenger had brought tidings that the waggons had been attacked and

robbed, and the perpetrators of the deed were his own brothers and their

cousin and accomplice Absbach. True, Seitz himself had had no share in

the assault, yet he did not feel wholly blameless for what had occurred,

since over the wine and cards he had boasted, in the presence of the

robbers, of the costly wares which his father-in-law was expecting, and

mentioned the road they would take.

Seitz Siebenburg’s conscience was also burdened with something quite

different.

Vexed and irritated by the countess’s insulting rebuff, he had gone to

the Green Shield to forget his annoyance at the gaming table in the Duke

of Pomerania’s quarters. He had fared ill. There was no lack of fiery

Rhine wine supplied by the generous host; the sultry atmosphere caused

by the rising thunderstorm increased his thirst and, half intoxicated,

and incensed by the luck of Heinz Schorlin, in whom he saw the preferred

lover of the lady who had so suddenly withdrawn her favour, he had been

led on to stakes of unprecedented amount. At last he risked the lands,

castle, and village which he possessed in Hersbruck as his wife’s dower.

Moreover, he was aware of having said things which, though he could not

recall them to memory in detail, had roused the indignation of many of

those who were present. The remarks referred principally to the Ortlieb

sisters.

Amid the wild uproar prevailing around the gaming table that night the

duel which had cost young Vorchtel his life was not mentioned until

the last dice had been thrown. In the discussion the victor’s betrothed

bride had been named, and Siebenburg clearly remembered that he had

spoken of the breaking of his brother-in-law’s engagement, and connected

it with accusations which involved him in a quarrel with several of the

guests, among them Heinz Schorlin.

Similar occurrences were frequent, and he was brave, strong, and skilful

enough to cope with any one, even the dreaded Swiss; only he was vexed

and troubled because he had disputed with the man to whom he had lost

his property. Besides, his father-in-law had so earnestly enjoined it

upon him to put no obstacle in the way of his desire to make peace with

the Ortliebs that he was obliged to bow his stiff neck to them.

The arrogant knight’s position was critical, and real inward dignity was

unknown to him. Yet he would rather have been dragged with his brothers

to the executioner’s block than humbled himself before the Swiss. But he

must talk with him for the sake of his twin sons, whose heritage he

had so shamefully gambled away. True, the utmost he intended was the

confession that, while intoxicated, he had staked his property at

the gaming table and said things which he regretted. Heinz Schorlin’s

generosity was well known. Perhaps he might offer some acceptable

arrangement ere the notary conveyed his estate to him. He did not yet

feel that he could stoop so low as to receive a gift from this young

upstart.

If his father-in-law, who supported him, was really ruined, as he had

just asserted, he would indeed be plunged into beggary, with his wife,

whose stately figure constantly rose before him, with a look of mute

reproach, his beautiful twin boys, and his load of debt.

The gigantic man felt physically crushed by the terrible blows of fate

which had fallen upon him during this last wakeful night. He would fain

have gone to the nearest tavern and there left it to the wine to bring

forgetfulness. To drink, drink constantly, and in the intervals sleep

with his head resting on his arms, seemed the most tempting prospect.

But he was obliged to return to the Eysvogels. There was too much at

stake. Besides, he longed to see the twins who resembled him so closely,

and of whom Countess Cordula had said that she hoped they would not be

like their father.

CHAPTER XV.

The city gates were already open. Peasants and peasant women bringing

vegetables and other farm produce to market thronged the streets, wains

loaded with grain or charcoal rumbled along, and herds of cattle and

swine, laden donkeys, the little carts of the farmers and bee keepers

conveying milk and honey to the city, passed over the dyke, which was

still softened by the rain of the preceding night.

The thunderstorm had cooled the air, but the rays of the morning sun

were already scorching. A few heavy little clouds were darkly relieved

against the blue sky, and a peasant, driving two sucking pigs before

him, called to another, who was carrying a goose under each arm, that

the sun was drawing water, and thundershowers seldom came singly.

Yet the city looked pleasant enough in the freshness of early June. The

maidservants who were opening the shutters glanced gaily out into the

streets, and arranged the flowers in front of the windows or bowed

reverently as a priest passed by on his way to mass. The barefooted

Capuchin, with his long beard, beckoned to the cook or the tradesman’s

wife and, as she put something into his beggar’s sack and he thanked

her kindly with some pious axiom, she felt as if she herself and all her

household had gained a right to the blessing of Heaven for that day, and

cheerily continued her work.

The brass counter in the low, broad bow window of the baker’s house

glittered brightly, and the pale apprentice wiped the flour from his

face and gave his master’s rosy-cheeked daughter fresh warm cakes to set

on the shining shelves. The barber’s nimble apprentice hung the towel

and basin at the door, while his master, wearied by the wine-bibbing

and talk at the tavern or his labour at the fire, was still asleep. His

active wife had risen before him, strewed the shop with fresh sand, and

renewed the goldfinch’s food.

The workshops and stores were adorned with birch branches, and the

young daughters of the burghers, in becoming caps, the maid servants and

apprentices, who were going to market with baskets on their arms, wore a

flower or something green on their breasts or in their caps.

The first notes of the bells, pealing solemnly, were summoning

worshippers to mass, the birds were singing in the garden, and the cocks

were crowing in the yards of the houses. The animals passing in the

street lowed, grunted, and cackled merrily in the dawn of the young day.

Gay young men, travelling students who had sought cheap quarters in

the country, now entered the city with a merry song on their lips just

shaded by the first down of manhood, and when a maiden met them she

lowered her eyes modestly before the riotous fellows.

The terrors of the frightful thunderstorm seemed forgotten. Nuremberg

looked gladsome; a carpet hung from many a bow-window, and flags and

streamers fluttered from roofs and balconies to honour the distinguished

guests. Many signs of their presence were visible, squires and

equerries, in their masters’ colours, were riding spirited horses, and

a few knights who loved early rising were already in the saddle, their

shining helmets and coats of mail flashing brightly in the sunshine.

The gigantic figure of Sir Seitz Siebenburg moved with drooping head

through the budding joy of this June day towards the Eysvogel dwelling.

His gloomy, haggard face and disordered attire made two neatly dressed

young shoemaker’s apprentices, on their way to their work, nudge each

other and look keenly at him.

“I’d rather meet him here in broad daylight among houses and people than

in the dusk on the highway,” remarked one of them.

“There’s no danger,” replied the other. “He wears the curb now. He moved

from the robber nest into the rich Eysvogel house opposite. That’s Herr

Casper’s son-in-law. But such people can never let other folks’ property

alone. Only here they work in another way. The shoes he wears were made

in our workshop, but the master still whistles for his pay, and he owes

everybody--the tailor, the lacemaker, the armourer, the girdlemaker, and

the goldsmith. If an apprentice reminds him of the debt, let him beware

of bruises.”

“The Emperor Rudolph ought to issue an edict against such injustice!”

wrathfully exclaimed the other and taller youth, the handsome son of a

master of the craft from Weissenburg on the Sand, who expected soon to

take his father’s place. “Up at Castle Graufels, which is saddled on our

little town, master and man would be going barefoot but for us; yet for

three years we haven’t seen so much as a penny of his, though my father

says times have already improved, since the Hapsburg, as a just man----”

“Things have not been so bad here for a long while, the saints be

praised!” his companion broke in. “Siebenburg, or some of his wife’s

rich kindred, will at last be compelled to settle matters. We have

the law and the Honourable Council to attend to that. Look up! Yonder

stately old house gave its daughter to the penniless knight. She is one

of our customers too; a handsome woman, and not one of the worst either.

But her mother, who was born a countess--if the shoe doesn’t make a foot

small which Nature created big, there’s such an outcry! True, the old

woman, her mother, is worse still; she scolds and screams. But look up

at the bow window. There she stands. I’m only a poor brewer’s son, but

before I----”

“You don’t say so!” the other interrupted. “Have you seen the owl in the

cage in front of the guardhouse at the gate of the hospital? It is her

living image; and how her chin projects and moves up and down, as though

she were chewing leather!”

“And yet,” said the other, as if insisting upon something difficult to

believe, “and yet the old woman is a real countess.”

The Weissenburg apprentice expressed his astonishment with another: “You

don’t say so!” but as he spoke he grasped his companion’s arm, adding

earnestly: “Let us go. That ugly old woman just looked at me, and if it

wasn’t the evil eye I shall go straight to the church and drive away the

misfortune with holy water.”

“Come, then,” answered the Nuremberg youth, but continued thoughtfully:

“Yet my master’s grandmother, a woman of eighty, is probably older than

the one up there, but nobody could imagine a kinder, pleasanter dame.

When she looks approvingly at one it seems as if the dear God’s blessing

were shining from two little windows.”

“That’s just like my grandmother at home!” exclaimed the Weissenburg

apprentice with sparkling eyes.

Turning from the Eysvogel mansion as they spoke, they pursued their way.

Siebenburg had overtaken the apprentices, but ere crossing the threshold

of the house which was now his home he stopped before it.

It might, perhaps, be called the largest and handsomest in Nuremberg;

but it was only a wide two-story structure, though the roof had been

adorned with battlements and the sides with a small bow-windowed turret.

At the second story a bracket, bearing an image of the Madonna, had been

built out on one side, and on the other the bow window from which old

Countess Rotterbach had looked down into the street.

The coat of arms was very striking and wholly out of harmony with the

simplicity of the rest of the building. Its showy splendour, visible for

a long distance, occupied the wide space between the door of the house

and the windows of the upper story. The escutcheon of the noble family

from which Rosalinde, Herr Casper’s wife, had descended rested against

the shield bearing the birds. The Rotterbach supporters, a nude man

and a bear standing on its hind legs, rose on both sides of the double

escutcheon, and the stone cutter had surmounted the Eysvogel helmet with

a count’s coronet.

This elaborate decoration of the ancient patrician house had become

one of the sights of the city, and had often made Herr Casper, at the

Honourable Council and elsewhere, clench his fist under his mantle, for

it had drawn open censure and bitter mockery upon the arrogant man, but

his desire to have it replaced by a more modest one had been baffled by

the opposition of the women of his family. They had had it put up, and

would not permit any one to touch it, though Wolff, after his return

from Italy, had strenuously urged its removal.

It had brought the Eysvogels no good fortune, for on the day of its

completion the business received its first serious blow, and it also

served to injure the commercial house externally in a very obvious

manner. Whereas formerly many wares which needed to be kept dry had been

hoisted from the outer door and the street to the spacious attic, this

was now prevented by the projecting figures of the nude men and the

bears. Therefore it became necessary to hoist the goods to be stored in

the attic from the courtyard, which caused delay and hindrances of many

kinds. Various expedients had been suggested, but the women opposed them

all, for they were glad that the ugly casks and bales no longer found

their way to the garret past their windows, and it also gratified their

arrogance that they were no longer visible from the street.

Siebenburg now looked up at the huge escutcheon and recalled the day

when, after having been specially favoured by Isabella Eysvogel at a

dance in the Town Hall, he had paused in the same place. A long line of

laden waggons had just stopped in front of the door surmounted by the

double escutcheon, and if he had previously hesitated whether to profit

by the favour of Isabella, whose haughty majesty, which attracted him,

also inspired him with a faint sense of uneasiness, he was now convinced

how foolish it would be not to forge the iron which seemed aglow in

his favour. What riches the men-servants were carrying into the vaulted

entry, which was twice as large as the one in the Ortlieb mansion!

Besides, the escutcheon with the count’s coronet had given the knight

assurance that he would have no cause to be ashamed, in an assembly of

his peers, of his alliance with the Nuremberg maiden. Isabella’s hand

could undoubtedly free him from the oppressive burden of his debts, and

she was certainly a magnificent woman! How well, too, her tall figure

would suit him and the Siebenburgs, whose name was said to be derived

from the seven feet of stature which some of them measured!

Now he again remembered the hour when she had laid her slender hand in

his. For a brief period he had been really happy; his heart had not

felt so light since early childhood, though at first he had ventured to

confess only one half his load of debt to his father-in-law. He had

even assumed fresh obligations to relieve his brothers from their most

pressing cares. They had attended his brilliant wedding, and it had

flattered his vanity to show them what he could accomplish as the

wealthy Eysvogel’s son-in-law.

But how quickly all this had changed! He had learned that, besides

the woman who had given him her heart and inspired him with a passion

hitherto unknown, he had wedded two others.

Now, as the image of old Countess Rotterbach, Isabella’s grandmother,

forced itself upon his mind, he unconsciously knit his brow. He had not

heard her say much, but with every word she bestowed upon him he was

forced to accept something bitter. She rarely left her place in the

armchair in the bow window in the sitting-room, but it seemed as if her

little eyes possessed the power of piercing walls and doors, for she

knew everything that concerned him, even his greatest secrets, which he

believed he had carefully concealed. More on her account than on that of

his mother-in-law, who did nothing except what the former commanded,

he had repeatedly tried to remove with his wife to the estate of

Tannenreuth, which had been assigned to him on the day of the marriage,

that its revenues might support the young couple, but the mother and

grandmother detained his wife, and their wishes were more to her than

his. Perhaps, however, he might have induced her to go with him had not

his father-in-law made his debts a snare, which he drew whenever it

was necessary to stifle his wishes, and he, too, wanted to retain his

daughter at home.

Since Wolff’s return from Italy he had become aware that the stream of

gold from the Eysvogel coffers flowed more sparingly, or even failed

altogether to satisfy his extravagant tastes. Therefore his relations

with his brother-in-law, whose prudent caution he considered avarice,

and whose earnest protests against his often unprecedented demands

frequently roused his ire, became more and more unfriendly.

The inmates of the Eysvogel house rendered his home unendurable, and

from the experiences of his bachelor days he knew only too well where

mirth reigned in Nuremberg. So he became a rare guest at the Eysvogels,

and when Isabella found herself neglected and deceived, she made him

feel her resentment in her own haughty and--as soon as she deemed

herself injured--harsh manner.

At first her displeasure troubled him sorely, but the ardent passion

which had absorbed him during the early days of their marriage had died

out, and only flamed up with its old fervour occasionally; but at such

times the haughty, neglected wife repulsed him with insulting severity.

Yet she had never permitted any one to disparage her husband behind his

back. True, Siebenburg did not know this, but he perceived more and more

plainly that both the Eysvogels, father and son, were oppressed by some

grave anxiety, and that the sums which Wolff now paid him no longer

sufficed to hold his creditors in check. He was not accustomed to impose

any restraint upon himself, and thus it soon became known throughout the

city that he did not live at peace with his wife and her family.

Yet five weeks ago matters had appeared to improve. The birth of the

twins had brought something new into his life, which drew him nearer to

Isabella.

The children at first seemed to him two lovely miracles. Both boys,

both exactly like him. When they were brought to him on their white,

lace-trimmed pillows, his heart had swelled with joy, and it was his

greatest delight to gaze at them.

This was the natural result.

He, the stalwart Siebenburg, had not become the father of one ordinary

boy, but of two little knights at once. When he returned home--even if

his feet were unsteady--his first visit was to them, and he had often

felt that he was far too poor and insignificant to thank his neglected

wife aright for so precious a gift.

Whenever this feeling took possession of him he expressed his love to

Isabella with tender humility; while she, who had bestowed her hand

upon him solely from love, forgot all her wrongs, and her heart throbbed

faster with grateful joy when she saw him, with fatherly pride, carry

the twins about with bent knees, as if their weight was too heavy for

his giant arms to bear.

The second week after their birth Isabella fell slightly ill. Her mother

and grandmother undertook the nursing, and as the husband found them

both with the twins whenever he came to see the infants and their

mother, the sick-room grew distasteful to him. Again, as before their

birth, he sought compensation outside of the house for the annoyance

caused by the women at home; but the memory of the little boys haunted

him, and when he met his companions at the tavern he invited them to

drink the children’s health in the host’s best wine.

So life went on until the Reichstag brought the von Montforts, whom he

had met at a tournament in Augsburg, to the city of Nuremberg.

Mirth reigned wherever Countess Cordula appeared, and Siebenburg needed

amusement and joined the train of her admirers--with what evil result he

now clearly perceived for the first time.

He again stood before the stately dwelling where he had hoped to find

luxury and wealth, but where his heart now throbbed more anxiously than

those of his kinsmen had formerly done in the impoverished castle of his

father, who had died so long ago.

The Eysvogel dwelling, with its showy escutcheon above the door, was

threatened by want, and hand in hand with it, he knew, the most hideous

of all her children--disgrace.

Now he also remembered what he himself had done to increase the peril

menacing the ancient commercial house. Perhaps the old man within was

relying upon the estate of Tannenreuth, which he had assigned to him, to

protect some post upon which much depended, and he had gambled it away.

This must now be confessed, and also the amount of his own debts.

An unpleasant task confronted him but, humiliating and harassing as was

the interview awaiting him beyond the threshold before which he still

lingered, at least he would not find Wolff there. This seemed a boon,

since for the first time he would have felt himself in the wrong in the

presence of his unloved brother-in-law. Even the burden of his debts

weighed less heavily on his conscience than the irritating words with

which he had induced his father-in-law to break off Wolff’s betrothal to

Els Ortlieb. The act was base and malicious. Greatly as he had erred,

he had never before been guilty of such a deed, and with a curse upon

himself on his bearded lips he approached the door; but when half way

to it he stopped again and looked up to the second-story windows behind

which the twins slept. With what delight he had always thought of

them! But this time the recollection of the little boys was spoiled by

Countess Cordula’s message to his wife to rear them so that they would

not be like him, their father.

An evil wish! And yet the warmest love could have devised no better one

in behalf of the true welfare of the boys.

He told himself so as he passed beneath the escutcheon through the heavy

open door with its iron ornaments. He was expected, the steward told

him, but he arched his broad breast as if preparing for a wrestling

match, pulled his mustache still longer, and went up the stairs.

CHAPTER XVI.

The spacious, lofty sitting-room which Seitz Siebenburg entered looked

very magnificent. Gay Flanders tapestries hung on the walls. The ceiling

was slightly vaulted, and in the centre of each mesh of the net designed

upon it glittered a richly gilded kingfisher from the family coat of

arms. Bear and leopard skins lay on the cushions, and upon the shelf

which surrounded three sides of the apartment stood costly vases,

gold and silver utensils, Venetian mirrors and goblets. The chairs and

furniture were made of rare woods inlaid with ebony and mother of pearl,

brought by way of Genoa from Moorish Spain. In the bow window jutting

out into the street, where the old grandmother sat in her armchair, two

green and yellow parrots on brass perches interrupted the conversation,

whenever it grew louder, with the shrill screams of their ugly voices.

Siebenburg found all the family except Wolff and the twins. His wife was

half sitting, half reclining, on a divan. When Seitz entered she raised

her head from the white arm on which it had rested, turned her oval face

with its regular features towards him, and gathered up the fair locks

which, released from their braids, hung around her in long, thick

tresses. Her eyes showed that she had been weeping violently, and as her

husband approached she again sobbed painfully.

Her grandmother seemed annoyed by her lamentations for, pointing to

Isabella’s tears, she exclaimed sharply, glancing angrily at Siebenburg:

“It’s a pity for every one of them!”

The knight’s blood boiled at the words, but they strengthened his

courage. He felt relieved from any consideration for these people, not

one of whom, except the poor woman shedding such burning tears, had

given him occasion to return love for love. Had they flowed only for

the lost wealth, and not for him and the grief he caused Isabella, they

would not have seemed “a pity” to the old countess.

Siebenburg’s breath came quicker.

The gratitude he owed his father-in-law certainly did not outweigh the

humiliations with which he, his weak wife, and ill-natured mother-in-law

had embittered his existence.

Even now the old gentleman barely vouchsafed him a greeting. After he

had asked about his son, called himself a ruined man, and upbraided the

knight with insulting harshness because his brothers--the news had been

brought to him a short time before--were the robbers who had seized his

goods, and the old countess had chimed in with the exclamation, “They

are all just fit for the executioner’s block!” Seitz could restrain

himself no longer; nay, it gave him actual pleasure to show these hated

people what he had done, on his part, to add to their embarrassments. He

was no orator, but now resentment loosened his tongue, and with swift,

scornful words he told Herr Casper that, as the son-in-law of a house

which liked to represent itself as immensely rich, he had borrowed from

others what--he was justified in believing it--had been withheld through

parsimony. Besides, his debts were small in comparison with the vast

sums Herr Casper had lavished in maintaining the impoverished estates

of the Rotterbach kindred. Like every knight whose own home was not

pleasant, he sometimes gambled; and when, yesterday, ill luck pursued

him and he lost the estate of Tannenreuth, he sincerely regretted the

disaster, but it could not be helped.

Terror and rage had sealed the old countess’s lips, but now they parted

in the hoarse cry: “You deserve the wheel and the gallows, not the

honourable block!” and her daughter, Rosalinde Eysvogel, repeated in a

tone of sorrowful lamentation, “Yes, the wheel and the gallows.”

A scornful laugh from Siebenburg greeted the threat, but when Herr

Casper, white as death and barely able to control his voice, asked

whether this incredible confession was merely intended to frighten the

women, and the knight assured him of the contrary, he groaned aloud:

“Then the old house must succumb to disgraceful ruin.”

Years of life spent together may inspire and increase aversion instead

of love, but they undoubtedly produce a certain community of existence.

The bitter anguish of his aged household companion, the father of his

wife, to whom bonds of love still unsevered united him, touched even

Seitz Siebenburg. Besides, nothing moves the heart more quickly than the

grief of a proud, stern man. Herr Casper’s confession did not make him

dearer to the knight, but it induced him to drop the irritating tone

which he had assumed, and in an altered voice he begged him not to give

up his cause as lost without resistance. For his daughter’s sake old

Herr Ortlieb must lend his aid. Els, with whom he had just spoken, would

cling firmly to Wolff, and try to induce her father to do all that was

possible for her lover’s house. He would endeavour to settle with his

own creditors himself. His sharp sword and strong arm would be welcome

everywhere, and the booty he won----Here he was interrupted by the

grandmother’s query in a tone of cutting contempt: “Booty? On the

highway, do you mean?”

Once more the attack from the hostile old woman rendered the knight’s

decision easier, for, struggling not to give way to his anger, he

answered: “Rather, I think, in the Holy Land, in the war against

the infidel Saracens. At any rate, my presence would be more welcome

anywhere than in this house, whose roof shelters you, Countess. If,

Herr Casper, you intend to share with my wife and the twins what is left

after the old wealth has gone, unfortunately, I cannot permit you to do

so. I will provide for them also. True, it was your duty; for ever

since Isabella became my wife you have taken advantage of my poverty and

impaired my right to command her. That must be changed from this very

day. I have learned the bitter taste of the bread which you provide.

I shall confide them to my uncle, the Knight Heideck. He was my dead

mother’s only brother, and his wife, as you know, is the children’s

godmother. They are childless, and would consider it the most precious

of gifts to have such boys in the castle. My deserted wife must stay

with him, while I--I know not yet in what master’s service--provide that

the three are not supported only by the charity of strangers---”

“Oh, Seitz, Seitz!” interrupted Isabella, in a tone of urgent entreaty.

She had risen from her cushions, and was hurrying towards him. “Do not

go! You must not go so!”

Her tall figure nestled closely against him as she spoke, and she threw

her arms around his neck; but he kissed her brow and eyes, saying, with

a gentleness which surprised even her: “You are very kind, but I cannot,

must not remain here.”

“The children, the little boys!” she exclaimed again, gazing up at him

with love-beaming eyes. Then his tortured heart seemed to shrink, and,

pressing his hand on his brow, he paused some time ere he answered

gloomily: “It is for them that I go. Words have been spoken which

appeal to me, and to you, too, Isabella: ‘See that the innocent little

creatures are reared to be unlike their unhappy father.’ And the person

who uttered them----”

“A sage, a great sage,” giggled the countess, unable to control her

bitter wrath against the man whom she hated; but Siebenburg fiercely

retorted:

“Although no sage, at least no monster spitting venom.”

“And you permit this insult to be offered to your grandmother?” Frau

Rosalinde Eysvogel wailed to her daughter as piteously as if the injury

had been inflicted on herself. But Isabella only clung more closely

to her husband, heeding neither her mother’s appeal nor her father’s

warning not to be deluded by Siebenburg’s empty promises.

While the old countess vainly struggled for words, Rosalinde Eysvogel

stood beside the lofty mantelpiece, weeping softly. Before Siebenburg

appeared, spite of the early hour and the agitating news which she had

just received, she had used her leisure for an elaborate toilette. A

long trailing robe of costly brocade, blue on the left side and yellow

on the right, now floated around her tall figure. When the knight

returned she had looked radiant in her gold and gems, like a princess.

Now, crushed and feeble, she presented a pitiable image of powerless yet

offensively hollow splendour. It would have required too much exertion

to assail her son-in-law with invectives, like her energetic mother;

but when she saw her daughter, to whom she had already appealed several

times in a tone of anguished entreaty, rest her proud head so tenderly

on her husband’s broad breast, as she had done during the first weeks

of their marriage, but never since, the unhappy woman clearly perceived

that the knight’s incredible demand was meant seriously. What she had

believed an idle boast he actually requested. Yonder hated intruder

expected her to part with her only daughter, who was far more to her

than her unloved husband, her exacting mother, or the son who restricted

her wishes, whom she had never understood, and against whom her heart

had long been hardened. But it could not be and, losing all self-control

and dignity, she shrieked aloud, tore the blue headband from her hair

and, repeating the “never” constantly as if she had gone out of her

senses, gasped: “Never, never, never, so long as I live!”

As she spoke she rushed to her startled husband, pointed to her

son-in-law, who still held his wife in a close embrace, and in a

half-stifled voice commanded Herr Casper to strike down the gambler,

robber, spendthrift, and kidnapper of children, or drive him out of the

house like some savage, dangerous beast. Then she ordered Isabella to

leave the profligate who wanted to drag her down to ruin; and when her

daughter refused to obey, she burst into violent weeping, sobbing and

moaning till her strength failed and she was really attacked with one of

the convulsions she had often feigned, by the advice of her own mother,

to extort from her husband the gratification of some extravagant wish.

Indignant, yet full of sincere sympathy, Herr Casper supported his wife,

whose queenly beauty had once fired his heart, and in whose embrace

he had imagined that he would be vouchsafed here below the joys of the

redeemed. As she rested her head, with its long auburn tresses, still so

luxuriant, upon his shoulder, exquisite pictures of the past rose before

the mental vision of the elderly man; but the spell was quickly broken,

for the kerchief with which he wiped her face was dyed red from her

rouged cheeks.

A bitter smile hovered around his well-formed, beardless lips, and the

man of business remembered the vast sums which he had squandered to

gratify the extravagant wishes of the mother and daughter, and show

these countesses that he, the burgher, in whose veins ran noble blood,

understood as well as any man of their own rank how to increase the

charm of life by luxury and splendour.

While he supported his wife, and the old countess was seeking to relieve

her, Isabella also prepared to hasten to her mother’s assistance, but

her husband stopped her with resistless strength, whispering: “You know

that these convulsions are not dangerous. Come with me to the children.

I want to bid them farewell. Show me in this last hour, at least, that

these women are not more to you than I.” He released her as he spoke,

and the mental struggle which for a short time made her bosom heave

violently with her hurried breathing ended with a low exclamation, “I

will come.”

The nurse, whom Isabella sent out of the room when she entered with her

husband, silently obeyed, but stopped at the door to watch. She saw the

turbulent knight kneel beside the children’s cradle before the wife

whom he had so basely neglected, raise his tearful eyes to the majestic

woman, whose stature was little less than his own and, lifting his

clasped hands, make a confession which she could not hear; saw her draw

him towards her, nestle with loving devotion against his broad breast,

and place first one and then the other twin boy in his arms.

The young mother’s cheeks as well as the father’s were wet, but the eyes

of both sparkled with grateful joy when Isabella, in taking leave of her

husband, thanked him with a last loving kiss for the vow that, wherever

he might go, he would treasure her and the children in his heart, and do

everything in his power to secure a fate that should be worthy of them.

As Siebenburg went downstairs he met his father-in-law on the

second-story landing. Herr Casper, deadly pale, was clinging with his

right hand to the baluster, pressing his left on his brow, as he vainly

struggled for composure and breath. He had forgotten to strengthen

himself with food and drink, and the terrible blows of fate which had

fallen upon him during these last hours of trial crushed, though but

for a short time, his still vigorous strength. The knight went nearer

to help him, but when he offered Herr Casper his arm the old merchant

angrily thrust it back and accepted a servant’s support.

While the man assisted him upstairs he repented that he had yielded

to resentment, and not asked his son-in-law to try to discover Wolff’s

hiding place, but no sooner had food and fiery wine strengthened him

than his act seemed wise. The return of the business partner, without

whose knowledge he had incurred great financial obligations, would have

placed him in the most painful situation. The old gentleman would have

been obliged to account to Wolff for the large sum which he owed to the

Jew Pfefferkorn, the most impatient of his creditors, though he need

not have told him that he had used it in Venice to gratify his love of

gaming. How should he answer his son if he asked why he had rejected his

betrothed bride, and soon after condescended to receive her again as his

daughter and enter into close relations with her father? Yet this must

be done. Ernst Ortlieb was the only person who could help him. It had

become impossible to seek aid from Herr Berthold Vorchtel, the man whose

oldest son Wolff had slain, and yet he possessed the means to save the

sinking ship from destruction.

When the news of the duel reached him the messenger’s blanched face had

made him believe that Wolff had fallen. In that moment he had perceived

that his loss would have rendered him miserable for the rest of his

life. This was a source of pleasure, for since Wolff had extorted his

consent to the betrothal with Els Ortlieb, and thus estranged him from

the Vorchtels, he had seriously feared that he had ceased to love him.

Nay, in many an hour when he had cause to feel shame in the presence of

his prudent, cautious, and upright partner, it had seemed as if he hated

him. Now the fear of the judge whom he saw in Wolff was blended with

sincere anxiety concerning his only son, whose breach of the peace

menaced him with banishment--nay, if he could not pay the price of blood

which the Vorchtels might demand, with death. Doubtless he had done many

things to prejudice Wolff against his betrothed bride, yet he who had

cast the first stone at her now felt that, in her simple purity, she

would be capable of no repudiation of the fidelity she owed her future

husband. However strongly he had struggled against this conviction, he

knew that she, if any one, could make his son happy--far happier than

he had ever been with the tall, slender, snow-white, unapproachable

countess, who had helped bring him to ruin.

While consuming the food and drink, he heard his wife, usually a most

obedient daughter, disputing with her mother. This was fortunate; for,

if they were at variance, he need not fear that they would act as firm

allies against him when he expressed the wish to have Wolff’s marriage

solemnised as soon as circumstances would permit.

It was not yet time to discuss the matter with any one. He would first

go to the Jew Pfefferkorn once more to persuade him to defer his

claims, and then, before the meeting of the Council, would repair to the

Ortliebs, to commit to Herr Ernst the destiny of the Eysvogel firm

and his partner Wolff, on which also depended the welfare of the young

merchant’s betrothed bride. If the father remained obdurate, if he

resented the wrong he had inflicted yesterday upon him and his daughter,

he was a lost man; for he had already availed himself of the good will

of all those whose doors usually stood open to him. Doubtless the news

of his recent severe losses were in every one’s mouth, and the letter

which he had just received threatened him with an indictment.

The luckless Siebenburg’s creditors, too, would now be added to his own.

It was all very well for him to say that he would settle his debts him

self. As soon as it was rumoured abroad that he had gambled away the

estate of Tannenreuth, whose value gave the creditors some security,

they would rise as one man, and the house assailed would be his, Casper

Eysvogel’s.

The harried man’s thoughts of his son-in-law were by no means the most

kindly.

Meanwhile the latter set out for the second distasteful interview of the

morning.

His purpose was to make some arrangement with Heinz Schorlin about the

lost estate and obtain definite knowledge concerning his quarrel

with him, of which he remembered nothing except that intoxication and

jealousy had carried him further than would have happened otherwise.

He had undoubtedly spoken insultingly of Els; his words, when uttered

against a lady, had been sharper than beseemed a knight. Yet was not

any one who found a maiden alone at night with this man justified

in doubting her virtue? In the depths of his soul he believed in her

innocence, yet he avoided confessing it. Why should not the Swiss,

whom Nature had given such power over the hearts of women, have also

entangled his brother-in-law’s betrothed bride in a love affair? Why

should not the gay girl who had pledged her troth to a grave, dull

fellow like Wolff, have been tempted into a little love dalliance with

the bold, joyous Schorlin?

Not until he had received proof that he had erred would he submit to

recall his charges.

He had left his wife with fresh courage and full of good intentions. Now

that he was forced to bid her farewell, he first realised what she had

been to him. No doubt both had much to forgive, but she was a splendid

woman. Though her father’s storehouses contained chests of spices and

bales of cloth, he did not know one more queenly. That he could have

preferred, even for a single moment, the Countess von Montfort, whose

sole advantage over her was her nimble tongue and gay, bold manners, now

seemed incomprehensible. He had joined Cordula’s admirers only to forget

at her feet the annoyances with which he had been wearied at home. He

had but one thing for which to thank the countess--her remark concerning

the future of the twins.

Yet was he really so base that it would have been a disgrace for his

darlings to resemble him? “No!” a voice within cried loudly, and as the

same voice reminded him of the victories won in tournaments and sword

combats, of the open hand with which, since he had been the rich

Eysvogel’s son-in-law, he had lent and given money to his brothers, and

especially of the manly resolve to provide for his wife and children as

a soldier in the service of some prince, another, lower, yet insistent,

recalled other things. It referred to the time when, with his brothers,

he had attacked a train of freight waggons and not cut down their armed

escort alone. The curse of a broad-shouldered Nordlinger carrier, whose

breast he had pierced with a lance though he cried out that he was a

father and had a wife and child to support, the shriek of the pretty boy

with curling brown hair who clung to the bridle of his steed as he rode

against the father, and whose arm he had cut off, still seemed to ring

in his ears. He also remembered the time when, after a rich capture on

the highway which had filled his purse, he had ridden to Nuremberg

in magnificent new clothes at the carnival season in order, by his

brothers’ counsel, to win a wealthy bride. Fortune and the saints had

permitted him to find a woman to satisfy both his avarice and his

heart, yet he had neither kept faith with her nor even showed her proper

consideration. But, strangely enough, the warning voice reproached him

still more sharply for having, in the presence of others, accused and

disparaged his brother-in-law’s betrothed bride, whose guilt he believed

proved. Again he felt how ignoble and unworthy of a knight his conduct

had been. Why had he pursued this course? Merely--he admitted it now--to

harm Wolff, the monitor and niggard whom he hated; perhaps also because

he secretly told himself that, if Wolff formed a happy marriage, he and

his children, not Siebenburg’s twin boys, would obtain the larger share

of the Eysvogel property.

This greed of gain, which had brought him to Nuremberg to seek a wife,

was probably latent in his blood, though his reckless accumulation of

debts seemed to contradict it. Yesterday, at the Duke of Pomerania’s, it

had again led him into that wild, mad dice-throwing.

Seitz Siebenburg was no calm thinker. All these thoughts passed singly

in swift flashes through his excited brain. Like the steady monotone of

the bass accompanying the rise and fall of the air, he constantly heard

the assurance that it would be a pity if his splendid twins should

resemble him.

Therefore they must grow up away from his influence, under the care of

his good uncle. With this man’s example before their eyes they would

become knights as upright and noble as Kunz Heideck, whom every one

esteemed.

For the sake of the twins he had resolved to begin a new and worthier

life himself. His wife would aid him, and love should lend him strength

to conduct himself in future so that Countess von Montfort, and every

one who meant well by his sons, might wish them to resemble their

father.

He walked on, holding his head proudly erect. Seeing the first

worshippers entering the Church of Our Lady, he went in, too, repeated

several Paternosters, commended the little boys and their mother to

the care of the gracious Virgin, and besought her to help him curb the

turbulent impulses which often led him to commit deeds he afterwards

regretted.

Many people knew Casper Eysvogel’s tall, haughty son-in-law and

marvelled at the fervent devotion with which, kneeling in the first

place he found near the entrance, beside two old women, he continued

to pray. Was it true that the Eysvogel firm had been placed in a very

critical situation by the loss of great trains of merchandise? One of

his neighbours had heard him sigh, and declared that something must

weigh heavily upon the “Mustache.” She would tell her nephew Hemerlein,

the belt-maker, to whom the knight owed large sums for saddles and

harnesses, that he would be wise to look after his money betimes.

Siebenburg quitted the church in a more hopeful mood than when he

entered it.

The prayers had helped him.

When he reached the fruit market he noticed that people gazed at him

in surprise. He had paid no heed to his dress since the morning of the

previous day, and as he always consumed large quantities of food and

drink he felt the need of refreshment. Entering the first barber’s shop,

he had the stubble removed from his cheeks and chin, and arranged his

disordered attire, and then, going to a taproom close by, ate and drank,

without sitting down, what he found ready and, invigorated in body and

mind, continued his walk.

The fruit market was full of busy life. Juicy strawberries and early

cherries, red radishes, heads of cabbages, bunches of greens, and long

stalks of asparagus were offered for sale, with roses and auriculas,

balsams and early pinks, in pots and bouquets, and the ruddy peasant

lasses behind the stands, the stately burgher women in their big round

hats, the daughters of the master workmen with their long floating locks

escaping from under richly embroidered caps, the maidservants with

neat little baskets on their round arms, afforded a varied and pleasing

scene. Everything that reached the ear, too, was cheery and amusing, and

rendered the knight’s mood brighter.

Proud of his newly acquired power of resistance, he walked on, after

yielding to the impulse to buy the handsomest bouquet of roses offered

by the pretty flower girl Kuni, whom, on Countess Cordula’s account,

during the Reichstag he had patronised more frequently than usual.

Without knowing why himself, he did not tell the pretty girl, who had

already trusted him very often, for whom he intended it, but ordered it

to be charged with the rest.

At the corner of the Bindergasse, where Heinz Schorlin lodged, he found

a beggar woman with a bandaged head, whom he commissioned to carry the

roses to the Eysvogel mansion and give them to his wife, Fran Isabella

Siebenburg, in his--Sir Seitz’s--name.

In front of the house occupied by the master cloth-maker Deichsler,

where the Swiss had his quarters, the tailor Ploss stopped him. He

came from Heinz Schorlin, and reminded Siebenburg of his by no means

inconsiderable debt; but the latter begged him to have patience a little

longer, as he had met with heavy losses at the gaming table the night

before, and Ploss agreed to wait till St. Heinrich’s day--[15th July].

How many besides the tailor had large demands! and when could Seitz

begin to cancel his debts? The thought even darted through his mind that

instead of carrying his good intentions into effect he had not paid for

the roses--but flowers were so cheap in June!

Besides, he had no time to dwell upon this trifle, for while quieting

the tailor he had noticed a girl who, notwithstanding the heat of the

day, kept her face hidden so far under her Riese--[A kerchief for the

head, resembling a veil, made of fine linen.]--that nothing but her eyes

and the upper part of her nose were visible. She had given him a hasty

nod and, if he was not mistaken, it was the Ortlieb sisters’ maid, whom

he had often seen.

When he again looked after the muffled figure she was hurrying up the

cloth-maker’s stairs.

It was Katterle herself.

At the first landing she had glanced back, and in doing so pushed the

kerchief aside. What could she want with the Swiss? It could scarcely

be anything except to bring him a message from one of her mistresses,

doubtless Els.

So he had seen aright, and acted wisely not to believe the countess.

Poor Wolff! Deceived even when a betrothed lover! He did not exactly

wish him happiness even now, and yet he pitied him.

Seitz could now stand before Heinz Schorlin with the utmost confidence.

The Swiss must know how matters stood between the older E and him

self, though his knightly duty constrained him to deny it to others.

Siebenburg’s self-reproaches had been vain. He had suspected no innocent

girl--only called a faithless betrothed bride by the fitting name.

The matter concerning his estate of Tannenreuth was worse. It had been

gambled away, and therefore forfeited. He had already given it up in

imagination; it was only necessary to have the transfer made by the

notary. The Swiss should learn how a true knight satisfies even the

heaviest losses at the gaming table. He would not spare Heinz Schorlin.

He meant to reproach the unprincipled fellow who by base arts had

alienated the betrothed bride of an honest man--for that Wolff certainly

was--when adverse circumstances prevented his watching the faithless

woman himself. Twisting the ends of his mustache with two rapid motions,

he knocked at the young knight’s door.

CHAPTER XVII.

Twice, three times, Siebenburg rapped, but in vain. Yet the Swiss was

there. His armour-bearer had told Seitz so downstairs, and he heard his

voice within. At last he struck the door so heavily with the handle of

his dagger that the whole house echoed with the sound. This succeeded;

the door opened, and Biberli’s narrow head appeared. He looked at the

visitor in astonishment.

“Tell your master,” said the latter imperiously, recognising Heinz

Schorlin’s servant, “that if he closes his lodgings against dunning

tradesfolk--”

“By your knock, my lord,” Biberli interrupted, “we really thought the

sword cutler had come with hammer and anvil. My master, however, need

have no fear of creditors; for though you may not yet know it, Sir

Knight, there are generous noblemen in Nuremberg during the Reichstag

who throw away castles and lands in his favour at the gaming table.”

“And hurl their fists even more swiftly into the faces of insolent

varlets!” cried Siebenburg, raising his right hand threateningly. “Now

take me to your master at once!”

“Or, at any rate, within his four walls,” replied the servitor,

preceding Seitz into the small anteroom from which he had come. “As to

the ‘at once,’ that rests with the saints, for you must know----”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the knight. “Tell your master that Siebenburg

has neither time nor inclination to wait in his antechamber.”

“And certainly nothing could afford Sir Heinz Schorlin greater pleasure

than your speedy departure,” Biberli retorted.

“Insolent knave!” thundered Seitz, who perceived the insult conveyed in

the reply, grasping the neck of his long robe; but Biberli felt that he

had seized only the hood, swiftly unclasped it, and as he hurried to a

side door, through which loud voices echoed, Siebenburg heard the low

cry of a woman. It came from behind a curtain spread over some clothes

that hung on the wall, and Seitz said to himself that the person must be

the maid whom he had just met. She was in Els Ortlieb’s service, and he

was glad to have this living witness at hand.

If he could induce Heinz to talk with him here in the anteroom it

would be impossible for her to escape. So, feigning that he had noticed

nothing, he pretended to be much amused by Biberli’s nimble flight.

Forcing a laugh, he flung the hood at his head, and before he opened the

door of the adjoining room again asked to speak to his master.

Biberli replied that he must wait; the knight was holding a religious

conversation with a devout old mendicant friar. If he might venture to

offer counsel, he would not interrupt his master now; he had received

very sad news, and the tailor who came to take his measure for his

mourning garments had just left him. If Seitz had any business with the

knight, and expected any benefit from his favour and rare generosity----

But Siebenburg let him get no farther. Forgetting the stratagem which

was to lure Heinz hither, he burst into a furious rage, fiercely

declaring that he sought favour and generosity from no man, least of

all a Heinz Schorlin and, advancing to the door, flung the servant who

barred his passage so rudely against the wall that he uttered a loud cry

of pain.

Ere it had died away Heinz appeared on the threshold. A long white

robe increased the pallor of his face, but yesterday so ruddy, and his

reddened eyes showed traces of recent tears.

When he perceived what had occurred, and saw his faithful follower,

with a face distorted by pain, rubbing his shoulder, his cheeks flushed

angrily, and with just indignation he rebuked Siebenburg for his

unseemly intrusion into his quarters and his brutal conduct.

Then, without heeding the knight, he asked Biberli if he was seriously

injured, and when the latter answered in the negative he again turned

to Seitz and briefly enquired what he wanted. If he desired to own

that, while in a state of senseless intoxication he had slandered modest

maidens, and was ignorant of his actions when he staked his castle and

lands against the gold lying before him, Heinz Schorlin, he might keep

Tannenreuth. The form in which he would revoke his calumny to Jungfrau

Ortlieb he would discuss with him later. At present his mind was

occupied with more important matters than the senseless talk of a

drunkard, and he would therefore request the knight to leave him.

As Heinz uttered the last words he pointed to the door, and this

indiscreet, anything but inviting gesture robbed Siebenburg of the last

remnant of composure maintained with so much difficulty.

Nothing is more infuriating to weak natures than to have others expect

them to pursue a course opposite to that which, after a victory over

baser impulses, they have recognised as the right one and intended to

follow. He who had come to resign his lost property voluntarily was

regarded by the Swiss as an importunate mendicant; he who stood here

to prove that he was perfectly justified in accusing Els Ortlieb of

a crime, Schorlin expected to make a revocation against his better

knowledge. And what price did the insolent fellow demand for the

restored estate and the right to brand him as a slanderer? The pleasure

of seeing the unwelcome guest retire as quickly as possible. No greater

degree of contempt and offensive presumption could be imagined, and as

Seitz set his own admirable conduct during the past few hours far

above the profligate behaviour of the Swiss, he was fired with honest

indignation and, far from heeding the white robe and altered countenance

of his enemy, gave the reins to his wrath.

Pale with fury, he flung, as it were, the estate the Swiss had won from

him at his feet, amid no lack of insulting words.

At first Heinz listened to the luckless gambler’s outbreak of rage

in silent amazement, but when the latter began to threaten, and even

clapped his hand on his sword, the composure which never failed him in

the presence of anything that resembled danger quickly returned.

He had felt a strong aversion to Siebenburg from their first meeting,

and the slanderous words with which he had dragged in the dust the good

name of a maiden who, Heinz knew, had incurred suspicion solely through

his fault, had filled him with scorn. So, with quiet contempt, he let

him rave on; but when the person to whom he had just been talking--the

old Minorite monk whom he had met on the highroad and accompanied to

Nuremberg--appeared at the door of the next room, he stopped Seitz with

a firm “Enough!” pointed to the old man, and in brief, simple words,

gave the castle and lands of Tannenreuth to the monastery of the

mendicant friars of the Franciscan order in Nuremberg.

Siebenburg listened with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, then he

said bitterly: “I thought that a life of poverty was the chief rule in

the order of St. Francis. But no matter! May the gift won at the gaming

table profit the holy Brothers. For you, Sir Knight, it will gain the

favour of the Saint of Assisi, whose power is renowned. So you have

acted wisely.”

Here he hesitated; he felt choked with rage. But while the Minorite was

thanking Heinz for the generous gift, Siebenburg’s eyes again rested on

the curtain behind which the maid was concealed.

It was now his turn to deal the Swiss a blow. The old mendicant friar

was a venerable person whose bearing commanded respect, and Heinz seemed

to value his good opinion. For that very reason the Minorite should

learn the character of this patron of his order.

“Since you so earnestly desire to be rid of my company, Sir Heinz

Schorlin,” he continued, “I will fulfil your wish. Only just now you

appeared to consider certain words uttered last night in reference to a

lady--”

“Let that pass,” interrupted Heinz with marked emphasis.

“I might expect that desire,” replied Siebenburg scornfully; “for as you

are in the act of gaining the favour of Heaven by pious works, it will

be agreeable to you--”

“What?” asked the Swiss sharply.

“You will surely desire,” was the reply, “to change conduct which is an

offence to honourable people, and still more to the saints above. You

who have estranged a betrothed bride from her lover and lured her to

midnight interviews, no doubt suppose yourself safe from the future

husband, whom the result of a duel--as you know--will keep from her

side. But Wolff happens to be my brother-in-law, and if I feel disposed

to take his place and break a lance with you----”

Heinz, pale as death, interrupted him, exclaiming in a tone of the

deepest indignation: “So be it, then. We will have a tilt with lances,

and then we will fight with our swords.”

Siebenburg looked at him an instant, as if puzzled by his adversary’s

sharp assault, but quickly regained his composure and answered: “Agreed!

In the joust--[single combat in the tourney]--with sharp weapons it will

soon appear who has right on his side.”

“Right?” asked Heinz in astonishment, shrugging his shoulders

scornfully.

“Yes, right,” cried the other furiously, “which you have ceased to

prize.”

“So far from it,” the Swiss answered quietly, “that before we discuss

the mode of combat with the herald I must ask you to recall the insults

with which yesterday, in your drunkenness, you injured the honour of a

virtuous maiden in the presence of other knights and gentlemen.”

“Whose protector,” laughed Seitz, “you seem to have constituted

yourself, by your own choice, in her bridegroom’s place.”

“I accept the position,” replied Heinz with cool deliberation. “Not you,

nay, I will fight in Wolff Eysvogel’s stead--and with his consent, I

think. I know him, and esteem him so highly----”

“That you invite his plighted bride to nocturnal love dalliance, and

exchange love messages with her,” interrupted the other.

This was too much for Heinz Schorlin and, with honest indignation, he

cried: “Prove it! Or, by our Lord’s blood!--My sword, Biberli!--Spite of

the peace proclaimed throughout the land, you shall learn, ere you open

your slandering lips again----”

Here he paused suddenly, for while Biberli withdrew to obey the command

which, though it probably suited his wishes, he was slow in executing,

doubtless that he might save his master from a reckless act, Siebenburg,

frantic with fury, rushed to the curtain. Ere Heinz could interfere,

he jerked it back so violently that he tore it from the fastenings and

forced the terrified maid, whose arm he grasped, to approach the knight

with him.

Heinz had seen Katterle only by moonlight and in the twilight, so

her unexpected appearance gave him no information. He gazed at her

enquiringly, with as much amazement as though she had risen from the

earth. Siebenburg gave him no time to collect his thoughts, but dragged

the girl before the monk and, raising his voice in menace, commanded:

“Tell the holy Brother who you are, woman!”

“Katterle of Sarnen,” she answered, weeping. “And whom do you serve?”

the knight demanded.

“The Ortlieb sisters, Jungfrau Els and Jungfrau Eva,” was the reply.

“The beautiful Es, as they are called here, holy Brother,” said

Siebenburg with a malicious laugh, “whose maid I recognise in this girl.

If she did not come hither to mend the linen of her mistress’s friend--”

But here Biberli, who on his return to the anteroom had been terrified

by the sight of his sweetheart, interrupted the knight by turning to

Heinz with the exclamation: “Forgive me, my lord. Surely you know

that she is my betrothed bride. She came just now--scarcely a dozen

Paternosters ago-to talk with me about the marriage.”

Katterle had listened in surprise to the bold words of her true and

steadfast lover, yet she was not ill pleased, for he had never before

spoken of their marriage voluntarily. At the same time she felt the

obligation of aiding him and nodded assent, while Siebenburg rudely

interrupted the servant by calling to the monk: “Lies and deception,

pious Brother. Black must be whitened here. She stole, muffled, to her

mistress’s gallant, to bring a message from the older beautiful E, with

whom this godly knight was surprised last night.”

Again the passionate outbreak of his foe restored the Swiss to

composure. With a calmness which seemed to the servant incomprehensible,

though it filled him with delight, he turned to the monk, saying

earnestly and simply: “Appearances may be against me, Pater Benedictus.

I will tell you all the circumstances at once. How this maid came here

will be explained later. As for the maiden whom this man calls the older

beautiful E, never--I swear it by our saint--have I sought her love or

received from her the smallest token of her favour.”

Then turning to Siebenburg he continued, still calmly, but with menacing

sternness: “If I judge you aright, you will now go from one to another

telling whom you found here, in order to injure the fair fame of the

maiden whom your wife’s valiant brother chose for his bride, and to

place my name with hers in the pillory.”

“Where Els Ortlieb belongs rather than in the honourable home of a

Nuremberg patrician,” retorted Siebenburg furiously. “If she became too

base for my brother-in-law, the fault is yours. I shall certainly take

care that he learns the truth and knows where, and at what an hour, his

betrothed bride met foreign heartbreakers. To open the eyes of others

concerning her will also be a pleasant duty.”

Heinz sprang towards Biberli to snatch the sword from his hand, but

he held it firmly, seeking his master’s eyes with a look of warning

entreaty; but his faithful solicitude would have been futile had not

the monk lent his aid. The old man’s whispered exhortation to his young

friend to spare the imperial master, to whom he was so deeply indebted,

a fresh sorrow, restored to the infuriated young knight his power of

self-control. Pushing the thick locks back from his brow with a hasty

movement, he answered in a tone of the most intense contempt:

“Do what you will, but remember this: Beware that, ere the joust begins,

you do not ride the rail instead of the charger. The maidens whose pure

name you so yearn to sully are of noble birth, and if they appear to

complain of you----”

“Then I will proclaim the truth,” Siebenburg retorted, “and the Court of

Love and Pursuivant at Arms will deprive you, the base seducer, of the

right to enter the lists rather than me, my handsome knight!”

“So be it,” replied Heinz quietly. “You can discuss the other points

with my herald. Wolff Eysvogel, too--rely upon it--will challenge you,

if you fulfil your base design.”

Then, turning his back upon Seitz without a word of farewell, he

motioned the monk towards the open door of the antechamber, and letting

him lead the way, closed it behind them.

“He will come to you, you boaster!” Siebenburg shouted contemptuously

after the Swiss, and then turned to Biberli and the maid with a

patronising question; but the former, without even opening his lips in

reply, hastened to the door and, with a significant gesture, induced the

knight to retire.

Seitz submitted and hastened down the stairs, his eyes flashing as if he

had won a great victory. At the door of the house he grasped the hilt

of his sword, and then, with rapid movements, twisted the ends of his

mustache. The surprise he had given the insolent Swiss by the discovery

of his love messenger--it had acted like a spell--could not have

succeeded better. And what had Schorlin alleged in justification?

Nothing, absolutely nothing at all. Wolff Eysvogel’s herald should

challenge the Swiss, not him, who meant to open the deceived lover’s

eyes concerning his betrothed bride.

He eagerly anticipated the joust and the sword combat with Heinz. The

sharper the herald’s conditions the better. He had hurled more powerful

foes than the Swiss from the saddle, and from knightly “courtoisie” not

even used his strength without consideration. Heinz Schorlin should feel

it.

He gazed around him like a victor, and throwing his head back haughtily

he went down the Bindergasse, this time past the Franciscan monastery

towards the Town Hall and the fish market. Eber, the sword cutler, lived

there and, spite of the large sum he owed him, Seitz wished to talk with

him about the sharp weapons he needed for the joust. On his way he gave

his imagination free course. It showed him his impetuous onset, his

enemy’s fall in the sand, the sword combat, and the end of the joust,

the swift death of his hated foe.

These pictures of the future occupied his thoughts so deeply that he

neither saw nor heard what was passing around him. Many a person for

whom he forgot to turn aside looked angrily after him. Suddenly he found

his farther progress arrested. The crier had just raised his voice to

announce some important tidings to the people who thronged around him

between the Town Hall and the Franciscan monastery. Perhaps he might

have succeeded in forcing a passage through the concourse, but when he

heard the name “Ernst Ortlieb,” in the monotonous speech of the city

crier, he followed the remainder of his notice. It made known to the

citizens of Nuremberg that, since the thunderstorm of the preceding

night, a maid had been missing from the house of the Honourable Herr

Ernst Ortlieb, of the Council, a Swiss by birth, Katharina of Sarnen,

called Katterle, a woman of blameless reputation. Whoever should learn

anything concerning the girl was requested to bring the news to the

Ortlieb residence.

What did this mean?

If the girl had vanished at midnight and not returned to her employers

since, she could scarcely have sought Heinz Schorlin as a messenger of

love from Els. But if she had not come to the Swiss from one of the Es,

what proof did he, Seitz, possess of the guilt of his brother-in-law’s

bride? How should he succeed in making Wolff understand that his beloved

Els had wronged him if the maid was to play no part in proving it?

Yesterday evening he had not believed firmly in her guilt; that very

morning it had even seemed to him a shameful thing that he had cast

suspicion upon her in the presence of others. The encounter with the

maid at the Swiss knight’s lodgings had first induced him to insist on

his accusation so defiantly. And now? If Heinz Schorlin, with the help

of the Ortliebs, succeeded in proving the innocence of those whom he had

accused, then--ah, he must not pursue that train of thought--then, at

the lady’s accusation, he might be deprived of the right to enter the

lists in the tournament; then all the disgrace which could be inflicted

upon the slanderous defamer of character threatened him; then Wolff

would summon him to a reckoning, as well as Heinz Schorlin. Wolff, whom

he had begun to hate since, with his resistless arm of iron, he had

exposed him for the first time to the malicious glee of the bystanders

in the fencing hall.

Yet it was not this which suddenly bowed his head and loudly admonished

him that he had again behaved like a reckless fool. Cowardice was his

least fault. He did not fear what might befall him in battle. Whether

he would be barred out from the lists was the terrible question which

darkened the bright morning already verging towards noon. He had charged

Els with perfidy in the presence of others, and thereby exposed her, the

plighted bride of a knight, to the utmost scorn. And besides--fool

that he was!--his brothers had again attacked a train of waggons on

the highway and would soon be called to account as robbers. This would

certainly lead the Swiss and others to investigate his own past, and

the Pursuivant at Arms excluded from joust and tourney whoever “injured

trade or merchant.” What would not his enemy, who was in such high

favour with the Emperor, do to compass his destruction? But--and at the

thought he uttered a low imprecation--how could he ride to the joust if

his father-in-law closed his strong box which, moreover, was said to

be empty? If the old man was forced to declare himself bankrupt

Siebenburg’s creditors would instantly seize his splendid chargers and

costly suits of armour, scarcely one half of which were paid for. How

much money he needed as security in case of defeat! His sole property

was debts. Yet the thought seemed like an illumination--his wife’s

valuable old jewels could probably still be saved, and she might be

induced to give him part of the ornaments for the tournament. He need

only make her understand that his honour and that of the twins were at

stake. Would that Heaven might spare his boys such hours of anxiety and

self-accusation!

But what was this? Was he deluding himself? Did his over-excited

imagination make him hear a death knell pealing for his honour and his

hopes, which must be borne to their grave? Yet no! All the citizens and

peasants, men and women, great and small, who thronged the salt market,

which he had just entered, raised their heads to listen with him; for

from every steeple at once rang the mournful death knell which announced

to the city the decease of an “honourable” member of the Council, a

secular or ecclesiastical prince. The mourning banner was already

waving on the roof of the Town Hall, towards which he turned. Men in the

service of the city were hoisting other black flags upon the almshouse,

and now the Hegelein--[Proclaimer of decrees]--in mourning garments,

mounted on a steed caparisoned with crepe, came riding by at the head of

other horsemen clad in sable, proclaiming to the throng that Hartmann,

the Emperor Rudolph’s promising son, had found an untimely end. The

noble youth was drowned while bathing in the Rhine.

It seemed as if a frost had blighted a blooming garden. The gay bustle

in the market place was paralysed. The loud sobs of many women blended

with exclamations of grief and pity from bearded lips which had just

been merrily bargaining for salt and fish, meat and game. Messengers

with crepe on their hats or caps forced a passage through the throng,

and a train of German knights, priests, and monks passed with bowed

heads, bearing candles in their hands, between the Town Hail and St.

Sebald’s Church towards the corn magazine and the citadel.

Meanwhile dark clouds were spreading slowly over the bright-blue vault

of the June sky. A flock of rooks hovered around the Town Hall, and then

flew, with loud cries, towards the castle.

Seitz watched them indifferently. Even the great omnipotent sovereign

there had his own cross to bear; tears flowed in his proud palace also,

and sighs of anguish were heard. And this was just. He had never wished

evil to any one who did not injure him, but even if he could have

averted this sore sorrow from the Emperor Rudolph he would not have

stirred a finger. His coronation had been a blow to him and to his

brothers. Formerly they had been permitted to work their will on the

highways, but the Hapsburg, the Swiss, had pitilessly stopped their

brigandage. Now for the first time robber-knights were sentenced and

their castles destroyed. The Emperor meant to transform Germany into a

sheepfold, Absbach exclaimed. The Siebenburg brothers were his faithful

allies, and though they complained that the joyous, knightly clank of

arms would be silenced under such a sovereign, they themselves took care

that the loud battle shouts, cries of pain, and shrieks for aid were not

hushed on the roads used for traffic by the merchants. But this was not

Seitz’s sole reason for shrugging his shoulders at the expressions of

the warmest sympathy which rose around him. The Emperor was tenderly

attached to Heinz Schorlin, and the man who was so kindly disposed

to his foe could never be his friend. Perhaps to-morrow Rudolph might

behead his brothers and elevate Heinz Schorlin to still greater honors.

Seitz, whose eyes had overflowed with tears when the warder of his

native castle lost his aged wife, who had been his nurse, now found no

cause to grieve with the mourners.

So he continued his way, burdened with his own anxieties, amid the tears

and lamentations of the multitude. The numerous retinue of servants in

the Eysvogel mansion were moving restlessly to and fro; the news of the

prince’s death had reached them. Herr Casper had left the house. He was

probably at Herr Ernst Ortlieb’s. If the latter had already learned

what he, Seitz Siebenburg, had said at the gaming table of his daughter,

perhaps his hand had dealt the first decisive blow at the tottering

house where, so long as it stood, his wife and the twins would under any

circumstances find shelter. Resentment against the Swiss, hatred,

and jealousy, had made him a knave, and at the same time the most

shortsighted of fools.

As he approached the second story, in which the nursery was situated and

where he expected to find his wife, it suddenly seemed as if a star had

risen amid the darkness. If he poured out his heart to Isabella and let

her share the terrible torture of his soul, perhaps it would awaken a

tender sympathy in the woman who still loved him, and who was dearer to

him than he could express. Her jewels were certainly very valuable, but

far more precious was the hope of being permitted to rest his aching

head upon her breast and feel her slender white hand push back the hair

from his anxious brow. Oh, if misfortune would draw her again as near to

him as during the early months of their married life and directly before

it, he could rise from his depression with fresh vigour and transform

the battle, now half lost, into victory. Besides, she was clever and had

power over the hearts of her family, so perhaps she might point out

the pathway of escape, which his brain, unused to reflection, could not

discover.

His heart throbbed high as, animated by fresh hope, he entered the

corridor from which opened the rooms which he occupied with her. But his

wish to find her alone was not to be fulfilled; several voices reached

him.

What was the meaning of the scene?

Isabella, her face deadly pale, and her tall figure drawn up to its

full height, stood before the door of the nursery with a stern, cold

expression on her lovely lips, like a princess pronouncing sentence upon

a criminal. She was panting for breath, and before her, her mother, and

her grandmother, Countess Cordula’s pretty page, whom Siebenburg knew

only too well, was moving to and fro with eager gestures. He held in his

hand the bunch of roses which Seitz had sent to his newly-won wife and

darling as a token of reconciliation, and Siebenburg heard his clear,

boyish tones urge: “I have already said so and, noble lady, you may

believe me, this bouquet, which the woman brought us, was intended for

my gracious mistress, Countess von Montfort. It was meant to give her

a fair morning greeting, and--Do not let this vex you, for it was done

only in the joyous game of love, as custom dictated. Ever since we came

here your lord has daily honoured my countess with the loveliest

flowers whose buds unfold in the region near the Rhine. But my gracious

mistress, as you have already heard, believes that you, noble lady, have

a better right to these unusually beautiful children of the spring than

she who last evening bade your lord behold in you, not in her, fair

lady, the most fitting object of his homage. So she sent me hither, most

gracious madam, to lay what is yours at your feet.”

As he spoke, the agile boy, with a graceful bow, tried to place the

flowers in Isabella’s hand, but she would not receive the bouquet, and

the abrupt gesture with which she pushed them back flung the nosegay on

the floor. Paying no further heed to it, she answered in a cold, haughty

tone: “Thank your mistress, and tell her that I appreciated her kind

intention, but the roses which she sent me were too full of thorns.”

Then, turning her back on the page, she advanced with majestic pride to

the door of the nursery.

Her mother and grandmother tried to follow, but Siebenburg pressed

between them and his wife, and his voice thrilled with the anguish of a

soul overwhelmed by despair as he cried imploringly: “Hear me, Isabella!

There is a most unhappy misunderstanding here. By all that is sacred to

me, by our love, by our children, I swear those roses were intended for

you, my heart’s treasure, and for you alone.”

But Countess Rotterbach cut him short by exclaiming with a loud chuckle:

“The unripe early pears will probably come from the fruit market to

the housewife’s hands later; the roses found their way to Countess von

Montfort more quickly.”

The malicious words were followed like an echo by Frau Rosalinde’s

tearful “It is only too true. This also!”

The knight, unheeding the angry, upbraiding woman, hastened in pursuit

of his wife to throw himself at her feet and confess the whole truth;

but she, who had heard long before that Sir Seitz was paying Countess

Cordula more conspicuous attention than beseemed a faithful husband, and

who, after the happy hour so recently experienced, had expected, until

the arrival of the page, the dawn of brighter, better days, now felt

doubly abased, deceived, betrayed.

Without vouchsafing the unfortunate man even a glance or a word, she

entered the nursery before he reached her; but he, feeling that he must

follow her at any cost, laid his hand on the lock of the door and tried

to open it. The strong oak resisted his shaking and pulling. Isabella

had shot the heavy iron bolt into its place. Seitz first knocked with

his fingers and then with his clenched fist, until the grandmother

exclaimed: “You have destroyed the house, at least spare the doors.”

Uttering a fierce imprecation, he went to his own chamber, hastily

thrust into his pockets all the gold and valuables which he possessed,

and then went out again into the street. His way led him past Kuni, the

flower girl from whom he had bought the roses. The beggar who was

to carry them to his wife did not hear distinctly, on account of her

bandaged head, and not understanding the knight, went to the girl from

whom she had seen him purchase the blossoms to ask where they belonged.

Kuni pointed to the lodgings of the von Montforts, where she had

already sent so many bouquets for Siebenburg. The latter saw both the

flower-seller and the beggar woman, but did not attempt to learn how the

roses which he intended for his wife had reached Countess Cordula. He

suspected the truth, but felt no desire to have it confirmed. Fate meant

to destroy him, he had learned that. The means employed mattered little.

It would have been folly to strive against the superior power of such an

adversary. Let ruin pursue its course. His sole wish was to forget his

misery, though but for a brief time. He knew he could accomplish this

by drink, so he entered the Mirror wine tavern and drained bumper after

bumper with a speed which made the landlord, though he was accustomed to

marvellous performances on the part of his guests, shake the head set on

his immensely thick neck somewhat suspiciously.

The few persons present had gathered in a group and were talking sadly

about the great misfortune which had assailed the Emperor. The universal

grief displayed so hypocritically, as Seitz thought, angered him, and he

gazed at them with such a sullen, threatening look that no one ventured

to approach him. Sometimes he stared into his wine, sometimes into

vacancy, sometimes at the vaulted ceiling above. He harshly rebuffed the

landlord and the waiter who tried to accost him, but when the peasant’s

prediction was fulfilled and the thunderstorm of the preceding night

was followed at midnight by one equally severe, he arose and left the

hostelry. The rain tempted him into the open air. The taproom was so

sultry, so terribly sultry. The moisture of the heavens would refresh

him.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The fury of the tempest had ceased, but the sky was still obscured by

clouds. A cool breeze blew from the northeast through the damp, heavy

air.

Heinz Schorlin was coming from the fortress, and after crossing the

Diligengasse went directly towards his lodgings. His coat of mail,

spurs, and helmeted head were accoutrements for the saddle, yet he

was on foot. A throng of men, women, and children, whispering eagerly

together, accompanied him. One pointed him out to another, as if there

was something unusual about him. Two stalwart soldiers in the pay of the

city followed, carrying his saddle and the equipments of his horse, and

kept back the boys or women who boldly attempted to press too near.

Heinz did not heed the throng. He looked pale, and his thick locks,

falling in disorder from under his helmet, floated around his face. The

chain armour on his limbs and his long surcoat were covered with mire.

The young knight, usually so trim, looked disordered and, as it were,

thrown off his balance. His bright face bore the impress of a horror

still unconquered, as he gazed restlessly into vacancy, and seemed to be

seeking something, now above and now in the ground.

The pretty young hostess, Frau Barbara Deichsler, holding her little

three-year-old daughter by the hand, stood in front of the house in the

Bindergasse where he lodged. The knight usually had a pleasant or merry

word for her, and a gay jest or bit of candy for Annele. Nay, the young

noble, who was fond of children, liked to toss the little one in his

arms and play with her.

Frau Barbara had already heard that, as Heinz was returning from the

fortress, the lightning had struck directly in front of him, killing his

beautiful dun charger, which she had so often admired. It had happened

directly before the eyes of the guard, and the news had gone from man

to man of the incredible miracle which had saved the life of the young

Swiss, the dearest friend of the Emperor’s dead son.

When Heinz approached the door Frau Barbara stepped forward with Annele

to congratulate him that the dear saints had so graciously protected

him, but he only answered gravely: “What are we mortals? Rejoice in the

child, Frau Barbara, so long as she is spared to you.”

He passed into the entry as he spoke, but Frau Deichsler hastily

prepared to call his armour-bearer, a grey-bearded Swiss who had served

the knight’s father and slept away the hours not devoted to his duties

or to the wine cup. He must supply the place of Biberli, who had left

the house a long time before, and for the first time in many years was

keeping his master waiting. But Heinz knew where he was, and while the

armour-bearer was divesting him, awkwardly enough, of his suit of mail

and gala attire, he was often seized with anxiety about his faithful

follower, though many things with which the morning had burdened his

soul lay nearer to his heart.

Never had he been so lucky in gambling as last night in the Duke of

Pomerania’s quarters. Biberli’s advice to trust to the two and five had

been repeatedly tested, and besides the estate of Tannenreuth, which

Siebenburg had staked against all his winnings, he had brought home more

gold than he had ever seen before.

Yet he had gone to rest in a mood by no means joyous. It was painful

to him to deprive any one of his lands and home. He had even resisted

accepting Siebenburg’s reckless stake, but his obstinate persistence and

demand could not be opposed. The calumnies by which the “Mustache” had

assailed the innocent Els Ortlieb haunted him, and many others had shown

their indignation against the traducer. Probably thirty gentlemen at the

gaming table had been witnesses of these incidents, and if, to-morrow,

it was in everybody’s mouth that he, Heinz, had been caught at mid-night

in an interview with the elder beautiful Ortlieb E, the fault was his,

and he would be burdened with the guilt of having sullied the honour and

name of a pure maiden, the betrothed bride of an estimable man.

And Eva!

When he woke in the morning his first thought had been of her. She had

seemed more desirable than ever. But his relatives at home, and the

counsel Biberli had urged upon him during their nocturnal wandering,

had constantly interposed between him and the maiden whom he so ardently

loved. Besides, it seemed certain that the passion which filled his

heart must end unhappily. Else what was the meaning of this unexampled

good luck at the gaming table? The torture of this thought had kept him

awake a long time. Then he had sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep. In the

morning Biberli, full of delight, roused him, and displayed three large

bags filled with florins and zecchins, the gains of the night before.

The servant had begged to be permitted to count the golden blessing,

which in itself would suffice to buy the right to use the bridge from

the city of Luzerne twice over, and the best thing about which was

that it would restore the peace of mind of his lady mother at Schorlin

Castle.

Now, in the name of all the saints, let him continue his life of

liberty, and leave the somnambulist to walk over the roofs, and suffer

Altrosen, who had worn her colour so patiently, to wed the countess.

But how long the servitor’s already narrow face became when Heinz, with

a grave resolution new to Biberli, answered positively that no ducats

would stray from these bags to Schorlin Castle. If, last night, anxiety

had burdened his mind like the corpse of a murdered man, these gains

weighed upon his soul like the loathsome body of a dead cat. Never

in his whole life had he felt so poor as with this devil’s money. The

witch-bait which Biberli had given him with the two and the five had

drawn it out of the pockets of his fellow gamblers. He would be neither

a cut-purse nor a dealer in the black arts. The wages of hell should

depart as quickly as they came. While speaking, he seized the second

largest bag and gave it to the servant, exclaiming: “Now keep your

promise to Katterle like an honest man. The poor thing will have a hard

time at her employer’s. I make but one condition: you are to remain in

my service. I can’t do without you.”

While the armour-bearer, in the agile Biberli’s place, was handing him

the garments to be worn in the house, Heinz again remembered how the

faithful fellow had thrown himself on his knees and kissed his master’s

hands and arms in the excess of his joyful surprise, and yet he had felt

as if a dark cloud was shadowing the brightness of his soul. The morning

sun had shone so radiantly into his window, and Annele had come with

such bewitching shyness to bring him a little bunch of lilies of the

valley with a rose in the centre, and a pleasant morning greeting from

her mother, that the cloud could not remain, yet it had only parted

occasionally to close again speedily, though it was less dense and dark

than before.

Yet he had taken the child in his arms and looked down into the narrow

street to show her the people going to market so gaily in the early

morning. But he soon put her down again, for he recognised in a horseman

approaching on a weary steed Count Curt Gleichen, the most intimate

friend of young Prince Hartmann and himself, and when he called to him

he had slid from his saddle with a faint greeting.

Heinz instantly rushed out of the house to meet him, but he had found

him beside his steed, which had sunk on its knees, and then, trembling

and panting, dragged itself, supported by its rider’s hand, into the

entry. There it fell, rolled over on its side, and stretched its limbs

stiffly in death. It was the third horse which the messenger had killed

since he left the Rhine, yet he was sure of arriving too soon; for he

had to announce to a father the death of his promising son.

Heinz listened, utterly overwhelmed, to the narrative of the

eye-witness, who described how Hartmann, ere he could stretch out a hand

to save him, had been dragged into the depths by the waves of the Rhine.

In spite of the sunny brightness of the morning the young Swiss had had

a presentiment of some great misfortune, and had told himself that he

would welcome it if it relieved him from the burden which had darkened

his soul since the disgraceful good luck of the previous night. Now

it had happened, and how gladly he would have continued to bear the

heaviest load to undo the past. He had sobbed on his friend’s breast

like a child, accusing Heaven for having visited him with this

affliction.

Hartmann had been not only his friend but his pupil--and what a pupil!

He had instructed him in horsemanship and the use of the sword, and

during the last year shared everything with him and young Count Gleichen

as if they were three brothers and, like a brother, the prince had

constantly grown closer to his heart. Had he, Heinz, accompanied

Hartmann to the Rhine and been permitted to remain with him, neither or

both would have fallen victims to the river! And Hartmann’s aged father,

the noble man to whom he owed everything, and who clung with his whole

soul to the beloved youth, his image in mind and person--how would the

Emperor Rudolph endure this? But a few months ago death had snatched

from him his wife, the love of his youth, the mother of his children,

the companion of his glorious career! The thought of him stirred Heinz

to the depths of his soul, and he would fain have hastened at once to

the castle to help the stricken father bear the new and terrible burden

imposed upon him. But he must first care for the messenger of

these terrible tidings who, with lips white from exhaustion, needed

refreshment.

Biberli, who saw and thought of everything, had already urged the

hostess to do what she could, and sent the servant to the tailor that,

when Heinz rode to the fortress, he might not lack the mourning--a

tabard would suffice--which could be made in a few hours.

Frau Barbara had just brought the lunch and promised to obey the command

to keep the terrible news which she had just heard a secret from every

one, that the rumor might not reach the fortress prematurely, when

another visitor appeared--Heinz Schorlin’s cousin, Sir Arnold Maier of

Silenen, a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with stalwart frame and

powerful limbs.

His grave, bronzed countenance, framed by a grey beard, revealed that

he, too, brought no cheering news. He had never come to his young

cousin’s at so early an hour.

His intelligent, kindly grey eyes surveyed Heinz with astonishment. What

had befallen the happy-hearted fellow? But when he heard the news which

had wet the young knight’s eyes with tears, his own lips also quivered,

and his deep, manly tones faltered as he laid his heavy hands on the

mourner’s shoulders and gazed tearfully into his eyes. At last he

exclaimed mournfully: “My poor, poor boy! Pray to Him to whom we owe all

that is good, and who tries us with the evil. Would to God I had less

painful tidings for you!”

Heinz shrank back, but his cousin told him the tidings learned from a

Swiss messenger scarcely an hour before. The dispute over the bridge

toll had caused a fight. The uncle who supplied a father’s place to

Heinz and managed his affairs--brave old Walther Ramsweg--was killed;

Schorlin Castle had been taken by the city soldiery and, at the command

of the chief magistrate, razed to the ground. Wendula Schorlin, Heinz’s

mother, with her daughter Maria, had fallen into the hands of the city

soldiers and been carried to the convent in Constance, where she and her

youngest child now remained with the two older daughters.

Heinz, deeply agitated by the news, exclaimed: “Uncle Ramsweg, our kind

second father, also in the grave without my being able to press his

brave, loyal hand in farewell! And Maria, our singing bird, our nimble

little squirrel, with those grave, world-weary Sisters! And my mother!

You, too, like every one, love her, Cousin--and you know her. She who

has been accustomed to command, and to manage the house and the

lands, who like a saint dried tears far and near amid trouble and

deprivation--she, deprived of her own strong will, in a convent! Oh,

Cousin, Cousin! To hear this, and not be able to rush upon the rabble

who have robbed us of the home of our ancestors, as a boy crushes a

snail shell! Can it be imagined? No Castle Schorlin towering high above

the lake on the cliff at the verge of the forest. The room where we all

saw the light of the world and listened to our mother’s songs destroyed;

the sacred chamber where the father who so lovingly protected us closed

his eyes; the chapel where we prayed so devoutly and vowed to the Holy

Virgin a candle from our little possessions, or, in the lovely month of

May, brought flowers to her from our mother’s little garden, the cliff,

or the dark forest. The courtyard where we learned to manage a steed and

use our weapons, the hall where we listened to the wandering minstrels,

in ruins! Gone, gone, all gone! My mother and Maria weeping prisoners!”

Here his cousin broke in to show him that love was leading him to look

on the dark side. His mother had chosen the convent for her daughter’s

sake; she was by no means detained there by force. She could live

wherever she pleased, and her dowry, with what she had saved, would be

ample to support her and Maria, in the city or the country, in a style

suited to their rank.

This afforded Heinz some consolation, but enough remained to keep his

grief alive, and his voice sounded very sorrowful as he added: “That

lessens the bitterness of the cup. But who will re build the ancient

castle? Who will restore our uncle? And the Emperor, my beloved,

fatherly master, dying of grief! Our Hartmann dead! Washed away like a

dry branch which the swift Reuss seizes and hurries out of our sight!

Too much, too hard, too terrible! Yet the sun shines as brightly as

before! The children in the street below laugh as merrily as ever!”

Groaning aloud, he covered his face with his hands, and those from whom

he might have expected consolation were forced to leave him in the midst

of the deepest sorrow; for the Swiss mail, which had come to Maier

of Silenen as the most distinguished of his countrymen, was awaiting

distribution, and Count Gleichen was forced to fulfill his sorrowful

duty as messenger. His friend Heinz had lent him his second horse, the

black, to ride to the fortress.

While Heinz, pursued by grief and care, sometimes paced up and down the

room, sometimes threw himself into the armchair which Frau Barbara, to

do him special honour, had placed in the sitting-room, the Minorite monk

Benedictus, whom he had brought to Nuremberg, had come uninvited

from the neighbouring monastery to give him a morning greeting. The

enthusiasm with which St. Francis had filled his soul in his early years

had not died out in his aged breast. He who in his youth had borne the

escutcheon of his distinguished race in many a battle and tourney, as a

knight worthy of all honour, sympathised with his young equal in rank,

and found him in the mood to provide for his eternal salvation. On the

ride to Nuremberg he had perceived in Heinz a pious heart and a keen

intellect which yearned for higher things. But at that time the joyous

youth had not seemed to him ripe for the call of Heaven; when he found

him bowed with grief, his eyes, so radiant yesterday, swimming in tears,

the conviction was aroused that the Omnipotent One Himself had taken him

by the hand to lead the young Swiss, to whom he gratefully wished the

best blessings, into the path which the noble Saint of Assisi himself

had pointed out to him, and wherein he had found a bliss for which in

the world he had vainly yearned.

But his conversation with his young friend had been interrupted, first

by the tailor who was to make his mourning garb, then by Siebenburg, and

even later he had had no opportunity to school Heinz; for after Seitz

had gone Biberli and Katterle had needed questioning. The result of this

was sufficiently startling, and had induced Heinz to send the servant

and his sweetheart on the errand from which the former had not yet

returned.

When the young knight found himself alone he repeated what the monk had

just urged upon him. Then Eva’s image rose before him, and he had asked

himself whether she, the devout maiden, would not thank her saint when

she learned that he, obedient to her counsel, was beginning to provide

for his eternal salvation.

Moved by such thoughts, he had smiled as he told himself that the

Minorite seemed to be earnestly striving to win him for the monastery.

The old man meant kindly, but how could he renounce the trade of arms,

for which he was reared and which he loved?

Then he had been obliged to ride to the fortress to wait upon the

Emperor and tell him how deeply he sympathised with his grief. But he

was denied admittance. Rudolph desired to be alone, and would not see

even his nearest relatives.

On the way home he wished to pass through the inner gate of the

Thiergartnerthor into Thorstrasse to cross the milk market. The violence

of the noonday thundershower had already begun to abate, and he had

ridden quietly forward, absorbed in his grief, when suddenly a loud,

rattling crash had deafened his ears and made him feel as if the earth,

the gate, and the fortress were reeling. At the same moment his horse

leaped upward with all four feet at once, tossed its clever head

convulsively, and sank on its knees.

Half blinded by the dazzling light he saw, and bewildered by the

sulphurous vapour he noticed, Heinz nevertheless retained his presence

of mind, and had sprung from the saddle ere the quivering steed fell

on its side. Several of the guard at the gate quickly hastened to his

assistance, examined the horse with him, and found the noble animal

already dead. The lightning had darted along the iron mail on its

forehead and the steel bit, and struck the ground without injuring Heinz

himself. The soldiers and a Dominican monk who had sought shelter from

the rain in the guardhouse extolled this as a great miracle. The

people who had crowded to the spot were also seized with pious awe, and

followed the knight to whom Heaven had so distinctly showed its favour.

Heinz himself only felt that something extraordinary had happened. The

world had gained a new aspect. His life, which yesterday had appeared so

immeasurably long, now seemed brief, pitifully brief. Perhaps it would

end ere the sun sank to rest in the Haller meadows. He must deem every

hour that he was permitted to breathe as a gift, like the earnest money

he, placed in the trainer’s hand in a horse trade. According to human

judgment the lightning should have killed him as well as the horse. If

he still lived and breathed and saw the grey clouds drifting across the

sky, this was granted only that he might secure his eternal salvation,

to which hitherto he had given so little concern. How grateful he ought

to be that this respite had been allowed him--that he had not been

snatched away unwarned, like Prince Hartmann, in the midst of his sins!

Would not Eva feel the same when she learned what had befallen him?

Perhaps Biberli would come back soon--he had been gone so long--and

could tell him about her.

Even before the thunderbolt had stirred the inmost depths of his being,

when he was merely touched by his deep grief and the monk’s admonition,

he had striven to guide the servant and his sweetheart into the right

path, and the grey-haired monk aided him. The monastic life, it is true,

would not have suited Biberli, but he had shown himself ready to atone

for the wrong done the poor girl who had kept her troth for three long

years and, unasked, went back with her to her angry master.

Ere Heinz set forth on his ride to the fortress he had gone

out declaring that he would prove the meaning of his truth and

steadfastness, thereby incurring a peril which certainly gave him a

right to wear the T and St on his long robe and cap forever. He must

expect to be held to a strict account by Ernst Ortlieb. If the incensed

father, who was a member of the Council, used the full severity of the

law, he might fare even worse than ill. But he had realised the pass

to which he had brought his sweetheart, and the Minorite led his honest

heart to the perception of the sin he would commit if he permitted

her to atone for an act which she had done by his desire--nay, at his

command.

With the gold Heinz had given him, and after his assurance that he would

retain him in his service even when a married man, he could, it is true,

more easily endure being punished with her who, as his wife, would soon

be destined to share evil with him as well as good. He had also secured

the aid of both his master and the Minorite, and had arranged an account

of what had occurred, which placed his own crime and the maid’s in a

milder light. Finally--and he hoped the best result from this--Katterle

would bring the Ortliebs good news, and he was the very man to make it

useful to Jungfrau Els.

So he had committed his destiny to his beloved master, behind whom was

the Emperor himself, to the Minorite, who, judging from his great age

and dignified aspect, might be an influential man, St. Leodogar, and his

own full purse and, with a heart throbbing anxiously, entered the street

with the closely muffled Katterle, to take the unpleasant walk to the

exasperated master and father.

The morning had been rife with important events to Biberli also. The

means of establishing a household, the conviction that it would be hard

for him to remain a contented man without the idol of his heart, and the

still more important one that it would not be wise to defer happiness

long, because, as the death of young Prince Hartmann had shown, and

Pater Benedictus made still more evident, the possibility of enjoying

the pleasures of life might be over far too speedily.

He had been within an ace of losing his Katterle forever, and through no

one’s guilt save that of the man on whose truth and steadfastness she so

firmly relied. After Siebenburg’s departure she had confessed with tears

to him, his master, and the monk, what had befallen her, and how she had

finally reached the Bindergasse and Sir Heinz Schorlin’s lodgings.

When, during the conflagration, fearing punishment, she had fled, she

went first to the Dutzen pond. Determined to end her existence,

she reached the goal of her nocturnal and her life pilgrimage. The

mysterious black water with its rush-grown shore, where ducks quacked

and frogs croaked in the sultry gloom, lay before her in the terrible

darkness. After she had repeated several Paternosters, the thought that

she must die without receiving the last unction weighed heavily on her

soul. But this she could not help, and it seemed more terrible to stand

in the stocks, like the barber’s widow, and be insulted, spit upon

by the people, than to endure the flames of purgatory, where so many

others--probably among them Biberli, who had brought her to this

pass--would be tortured with her.

So she laid down the bundle which--she did not know why herself--she had

brought with her, and took off her shoes as if she were going into

the water to bathe. Just at that moment she suddenly saw a red light

glimmering on the dark surface of the water. It could not be the

reflection of the fires of purgatory, as she had thought at first. It

certainly did not proceed from the forge on the opposite shore, now

closed, for its outlines rose dark and motionless against the moon.

No--a brief glance around verified it--the light came from the burning

of the convent. The sky was coloured a vivid scarlet in two places, but

the glow was brightest towards the southeastern part of the city,

where St. Klarengasse must be. Then she was overpowered by torturing

curiosity. Must she die without knowing how much the fire had injured

the newly built convent, on whose site she had enjoyed the springtime

of love, and how the good Sisters fared? It seemed impossible, and her

greatest fault for the first time proved a blessing. It drew her back

from the Dutzen pond to the city.

On reaching the Marienthurm she learned that only a barn and a cow

stable had b@en destroyed by the flames. For this trivial loss she had

suffered intense anxiety and been faithless to her resolution to seek

death, which ends all fears.

Vexed by her own weakness, she determined to go back to her employer’s

house and there accept whatever fate the saints bestowed. But when

she saw a light still shining through the parchment panes in the room

occupied by the two Es, she imagined that Herr Ernst was pronouncing

judgment upon Eva. In doing so her own guilt must be recalled, and the

thought terrified her so deeply that she joined the people returning

from the fire, for whom the Frauenthor still stood open, and allowed

the crowd to carry her on with them to St. Kunigunde’s chapel in St.

Lawrence’s church; and when some, passing the great Imhof residence,

turned into the Kotgasse, she followed.

Hitherto she had walked on without goal or purpose, but here the

question where to seek shelter confronted her; for the torchbearers who

had lighted the way disappeared one after another in the various houses.

Deep darkness suddenly surrounded her, and she was seized with terror.

But ere the last torch vanished, its light fell upon one of the brass

basins which hung in front of the barbers’ shops.

The barber! The woman whom she had seen in the stocks was the widow of

one, and the house where she granted the lovers the meeting, on whose

account she had been condemned to so severe a punishment, was in the

Kotgasse, and had been pointed out to her. It must be directly opposite.

The thought entered her mind that the woman who had endured such a

terrible punishment, for a crime akin to her own, would understand

better than any one else the anguish of her heart. How could the widow

yonder refuse her companion in guilt a compassionate reception!

It was a happy idea, but she would never have ventured to rouse the

woman from her sleep, so she must wait. But the first grey light of dawn

was already appearing in the eastern horizon on the opposite side of

the square of St. Lawrence, and perhaps Frau Ratzer would open her house

early.

The street did honour to the name of Kotgasse--[Kot or koth-mire].

Holding her dress high around her, Katterle waded across to the northern

row of houses and reached the plank sidewalk covered with mud to her

ankles; but at the same moment a door directly in front of her opened,

and two persons, a man and a woman, entered the street and glided by;

but they came from Frau Ratzer’s--she recognised it by the bow-window

above the entrance. The maid hurried towards the door, which still stood

open, and on its threshold was the woman to whom she intended to pay her

early visit.

Almost unable to speak, she entreated her to grant a poor girl, who

did not know where to seek shelter at this hour, the protection of her

house.

The widow silently drew Katterle into the dark, narrow entry, shut the

door, and led her into a neat, gaily ornamented room. A lamp which was

still burning hung from the ceiling, but Frau Ratzer raised the tallow

candle she had carried to the door, threw its light upon her face, and

nodded approvingly. Katterle was a pretty girl, and the flush of shame

which crimsoned her cheeks was very becoming. The widow probably thought

so, too, for she stroked them with her fat hand, promising, as she

did so, to receive her and let her want for nothing if she proved an

obedient little daughter. Then she pinched the girl’s arm with the tips

of her fingers so sharply that she shrank back and timidly told the

woman what had brought her there, saying that she was and intended

to remain a respectable girl, and had sought shelter with Frau Ratzer

because she knew what a sore disgrace she had suffered for the same

fault which had driven her from home.

But the widow, starting as if stung by a scorpion, denounced Katterle as

an impudent hussy, who rightfully belonged in the stocks, to which the

base injustice of the money-bags in the court had condemned her. There

was no room in her clean house for anyone who reminded her of this

outrage and believed that she had really committed so shameful an act.

Then, seizing the maid by the shoulders, she pushed her into the street.

Meanwhile it had grown light. The sun had just risen in the east above

the square of St. Lawrence and spread a golden fan of rays over

the azure sky. The radiant spectacle did not escape the eyes of the

frightened girl, and she rejoiced because it gave her the assurance that

the terrifying darkness of the night was over.

How fresh the morning was, how clear and beautiful the light of the

young day! And it shone not only on the great and the good, but on the

lowly, the poor, and the wicked. Even for the horrible woman within the

sky adorned itself with the exquisite blue and glorious brilliancy.

Uttering a sigh of relief she soon reached the Church of St. Lawrence,

which the old sexton was just opening. She was the first person who

entered the stately house of God that morning and knelt in one of the

pews to pray.

This had been the right thing for her to do. Dear Lord! Where was there

any maid in greater trouble, yet Heaven had preserved her from the death

on a red-hot gridiron which had rendered St. Lawrence, whose name the

church bore, a blessed martyr. Compared with that, even standing in the

pillory was not specially grievous. So she poured out her whole soul to

the saint, confessing everything which grieved and oppressed her, until

the early mass began. She had even confided to him that she was from

Sarnen in Switzerland, and had neither friend nor countryman here in

Nuremberg save her lover, the true and steadfast Biberli. Yet no! There

was one person from her home who probably would do her a kindness, the

wife of the gatekeeper in the von Zollern castle, a native of Berne,

who had come to Nuremberg and the fortress as the maid of the Countess

Elizabeth of Hapsburg, the present Burgravine. This excellent woman

could give her better counsel than any one, and she certainly owed the

recollection of Frau Gertrude to her patron saint.

After a brief thanksgiving she left the church and went to the fortress.

As she expected, her countrywoman received her kindly; and after

Katterle had confided everything to her, and in doing so mentioned Wolff

Eysvogel, the betrothed husband of the elder of her young mistresses,

Frau Gertrude listened intently and requested her to wait a short time.

Yet one quarter of an hour after another elapsed before she again

appeared. Her husband, the Bernese warder, a giant of a man to whom the

red and yellow Swiss uniform and glittering halberd he carried in his

hand were very becoming, accompanied his wife.

After briefly questioning Katterle, he exacted a solemn promise of

secrecy and then motioned to her to follow him. Meanwhile the maid had

been informed how the duel between Wolff Eysvogel and Ulrich Vorchtel

had ended, but while she still clasped her hands in horror, the Swiss

had opened the door of a bright, spacious apartment, where Els Ortlieb’s

betrothed husband received her with a kind though sorrowful greeting.

Then he continued his writing, and at last gave her two letters. One, on

whose back he drew a little heart, that she might not mistake it for

the other, was addressed to his betrothed bride; the second to Heinz

Schorlin, whom Wolff--no, her ears did not deceive her--called the

future husband of his sister-in-law Eva. At breakfast, which she shared

with her country people and their little daughter, Katterle would

have liked to learn how Wolff reached the fortress, but the gatekeeper

maintained absolute silence on this subject.

The maid at last, without hindrance, reached the Deichsler house and

found Biberli (not) at home. She ought to have returned to the Ortliebs

in his company long before, but the knight still vainly awaited his

servant’s appearance. He missed him sorely, since it did not enter his

head that his faithful shadow, Biberli, knew nothing of the thunderbolt

which had almost robbed him of his master and killed his pet, the dun

horse. Besides, he was anxious about his fate and curious to learn how

he had found the Ortlieb sisters; for, though Eva alone had power to

make Heinz Schorlin’s heart beat faster, the misfortune of poor Els

affected him more deeply as the thought that he was its cause grew more

and more painful.

Wolff’s letter, which Katterle delivered to him, revealed young

Eysvogel’s steadfast love for the hapless girl. In it he also alluded to

his nocturnal interview with Heinz, and in cordial words admitted that

he thought he had found in him a sincere friend, to whom, if to any one,

he would not grudge his fair young sister-in-law Eva. Then he described

how the unfortunate duel had occurred.

After mentioning what had excited young Ulrich Vorchtel’s animosity,

he related that, soon after his interview with Heinz, he had met young

Vorchtel, accompanied by several friends. Ulrich had barred his way,

loading him with invectives so fierce and so offensive to his honour,

that he was obliged to accept the challenge. As he wore no weapon save

the dagger in his belt, he used the sword which a German knight among

Ulrich’s companions offered him. Calm in the consciousness that he had

given his former friend’s sister no reason to believe in his love, and

firmly resolved merely to bestow a slight lesson on her brother, he took

the weapon. But when Ulrich shouted to the crusader that the blade he

lent was too good for the treacherous hand he permitted to wield it, his

blood boiled, and with his first powerful thrust all was over.

The German knight had then introduced himself as a son of the Burgrave

von Zollern and taken him to the castle, where, with his father’s

knowledge, the noble young Knight Hospitaller concealed him, and the

point now was to show the matter, which was undoubtedly a breach of the

peace, to the Emperor Rudolph in the right light. The young Burgrave

thought that he, Heinz Schorlin, could aid in convincing the sovereign,

who would lend him a ready ear, that he, Wolff, had only drawn his sword

under compulsion. So truly as Heinz himself hoped to be a happy man

through Eva’s love, he must help him to bridge the chasm which, by his

luckless deed, separated him from his betrothed bride.

Heinz had had this letter read aloud twice. Then when Biberli had gone

and he rode to the fortress, he had resolved to do everything in his

power for the young Nuremberg noble who had so quickly won his regard,

but the sorely stricken imperial father had refused to see him, and

therefore it was impossible to take any step in the matter.

Yet Wolff’s letter had showed that he believed him in all earnestness to

be Eva’s future husband, and thus strengthened his resolve to woo her as

soon as he felt a little more independent.

After the thunderbolt had killed the horse under him, and the old

Minorite had again come and showed him that the Lord Himself, through

the miracle He had wrought, had taken him firmly and swiftly by the hand

as His chosen follower, it seemed to his agitated mind, when he took up

the letter a second time, as though everything Wolff had written about

him and Els’s sister was not intended for him.

Eva was happiness--but Heaven had vouchsafed a miracle to prove the

transitoriness of earthly life, that by renunciation here he might

attain endless bliss above. Sacrifice and again sacrifice, according to

the Minorite, was the magic spell that opened the gates of heaven, and

what harder sacrifice could he offer than that of his love? “Renounce!

renounce!” he heard a voice within cry in his ears as, with much

difficulty, he himself read Wolff’s letter, but whatever he might cast

away of all that was his, he still would fail to take up his cross as

Father Benedictus required; for even as an unknown beggar he would have

enjoyed--this he firmly believed--in Eva’s love the highest earthly

bliss. Yet divine love was said to be so much more rapturous, and how

much longer it endured!

And she? Did not the holy expression of her eyes and the aspiration of

her own soul show that she would understand him, approve his sacrifice,

imitate it, and exchange earthly for heavenly love? Neither could

renounce it without inflicting deep wounds on the heart, but every drop

of blood which gushed from them, the Minorite said, would add new and

heavy weight to their claim to eternal salvation.

Ay, Heinz would try to resign Eva! But when he yielded to the impulse

to read Wolff’s letter again he felt like a dethroned prince whom some

stranger, ignorant of his misfortune, praises for his mighty power.

The visions of the future which the greyhaired monk conjured up, all

that he told hint of his own regeneration, transformation, and the

happiness which he would find as a disciple of St. Francis in poverty,

liberty, and the silent struggle for eternal bliss, everything which

he described with fervid eloquence, increased the tumult in the young

knight’s deeply agitated soul.

IN THE FIRE OF THE FORGE--PART II.

CHAPTER I.

The vesper bells had already died away, yet Heinz was still listening

eagerly to the aged Minorite, who was now relating the story of St.

Francis, his breach with everything that he loved, and the sorrowful

commencement of his life. The monk could have desired no more attentive

auditor. Only the young knight often looked out of the window in search

of Biberli, who had not yet returned.

The latter had gone to the Ortlieb mansion with Katterle.

The runaway maid, whose disappearance, at old Martsche’s earnest

request, had already been “cried” in the city, had no cause to complain

of her reception; for the housekeeper and the other servants, who knew

nothing of her guilt, greeted her as a favourite companion whom they had

greatly missed, and Biberli had taken care that she was provided with

answers to the questions of the inquisitive. The story which he had

invented began with the false report that a fire had broken out in the

fortress. This had startled Katterle, and attracted her to the citadel

to aid her countrywoman and her little daughter. Then came the statement

that she spent the night there, and lastly the tale that in the morning

she was detained in the Swiss warder’s quarters by a gentleman of

rank--perhaps the Burgrave himself--who, after he had learned who she

was, wished to give her some important papers for Herr Ernst Ortlieb.

She had waited hours for them and finally, on the way home, chanced to

meet Biberli.

At first the maid found it difficult to repeat this patchwork of truth

and fiction in proper order, but the ex-schoolmaster impressed it so

firmly on his sweetheart’s mind that at last it flowed from her lips as

fluently as his pupils in Stanstadt had recited the alphabet.

So she became among the other servants the heroine of an innocent

adventure whose truth no one doubted, least of all the housekeeper, who

felt a maternal affection for her. Some time elapsed ere she could reach

the Es; they were still with their mother, who was so ill that the leech

Otto left the sick-room shaking his head.

As soon as he had gone Biberli stopped Els, who had accompanied the

physician outside the door of the sufferer’s chamber, and earnestly

entreated her to forgive him and Katterle--who stood at his side with

drooping head, holding her apron to her eyes and persuade her father

also to let mercy take the place of justice.

But kind-hearted Els proved sterner than the maid had ever seen her.

As her mother had been as well as usual when she woke, they had told her

of the events of the previous night. Her father was very considerate,

and even kept back many incidents, but the invalid was too weak for

so unexpected and startling a communication. She was well aware of her

excitable daughter’s passionate nature; but she had never expected that

her little “saint,” the future bride of Heaven, would be so quickly

fired with earthly love, especially for a stranger knight. Moreover, the

conduct of Eva who, though she entreated her forgiveness, by no means

showed herself contritely ready to resign her lover, had given her so

much food for thought that she could not find the rest her frail body

required.

Soon after these disclosures she was again attacked with convulsions,

and Els thought of them and the fact that they were caused by Eva’s

imprudence, instigated by the maid, when she refused Biberli her

intercession with her father in behalf of him and his bride, as he now

called Katterle.

The servitor uttered a few touching exclamations of grief, yet meanwhile

thrust his hand into the pocket of his long robe and, with a courteous

bow and the warmest message of love from her betrothed husband, whom

Katterle had seen in perfect health and under the best care in the

Zollern castle, delivered to the indignant girl the letter which Wolff

had entrusted to the maid. Els hurried with the missive so impatiently

expected to the window in the hall, through which the sun, not yet

reached by the rising clouds, was shining, and as it contained nothing

save tender words of love which proved that her betrothed husband firmly

relied upon her fidelity and, come what might, would not give her up,

she returned to the pair, and hurriedly, but in a more kindly tone,

informed them that her father was greatly incensed against both, but

she would try to soften him. At present he was in his office with Herr

Casper Eysvogel; Biberli might wait in the kitchen till the latter went

away.

Els then entered the sick-chamber, but Biberli put his hand under his

sweetheart’s chin, bent her head back gently, and said: “Now you see how

Biberli and other clever people manage. The best is kept until the last.

The result of the first throw matters little, only he who wins the last

goes home content. To know how to choose the bait is also an art. The

trout bites at the fly, the pike at the worm, and a yearning maiden at

her lover’s letter. Take notice! To-day, which began with such cruel

sorrow, will yet have a tolerable end.”

“Nay,” cried Katterle, nudging him angrily with her elbow, “we never

had a day begin more happily for us. The gold with which we can set up

housekeeping--”

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Biberli, “the zecchins and gold florins are

certainly no trifle. Much can be bought with them. But Schorlin Castle

razed to the ground, my master’s lady mother and Fraulein Maria held as

half captives in the convent, to say nothing of the light-hearted Prince

Hartmann and Sir Heinz’s piteous grief--if all these things could be

undone, child, I should not think the bag of gold, and another into

the bargain, too high a price to pay for it. What is the use of a house

filled with fine furniture when the heart is so full of sorrow? At home

we all eat together out of a cracked clay dish across which a tinker had

drawn a wire, with rude wooden spoons made by my father, yet how we all

relished it!--what more did we want?”

As he spoke he drew her into the kitchen, where he found a friendly

reception.

True, the Ortlieb servants were attached to their employers and

sincerely sorry for the ill health of the mistress of the house, but

for several years the lamentations and anxiety concerning her had been

ceaseless. The young prince’s death had startled rather than saddened

them. They did not know him, but it was terrible to die so young and

so suddenly. They would not have listened to a merry tale which stirred

them to laughter, but Biberli’s stories of distant lands, of the court,

of war, of the tournament, just suited their present mood, and the

narrator was well pleased to find ready listeners. He had so many things

to forget, and he never succeeded better than when permitted to use his

tongue freely. He wagged it valiantly, too, but when the thunderstorm

burst he paused and went to the window. His narrow face was blanched,

and his agile limbs moved restlessly. Suddenly remarking, “My master

will need me,” he held out his hand to Katterle in farewell. But as the

zigzag flash of lightning had just been followed by the peal of thunder,

she clung to him, earnestly beseeching him not to leave her. He yielded,

but went out to learn whether Herr Casper was still in the office, and

in a short time returned, exclaiming angrily: “The old Eysvogel seems to

be building his nest here!”

Then, to the vexation of the clumsy old cook, whom he interrupted by his

restless movements in the Paternosters she was repeating on her rosary,

he began to stride up and down before the hearth.

His light heart had rarely been so heavy. He could not keep his thoughts

from his master, and felt sure that Heinz needed him; that he, Biberli,

would have cause to regret not being with him at this moment. Had the

storm destroyed the Ortlieb mansion he would have considered it only

natural; and as he glanced around the kitchen in search of Katterle,

who, like most of the others, was on her knees with her rosary in her

hand, old Martsche rushed in, hurried up to the cook, shook her as if to

rouse her from sleep, and exclaimed: “Hot water for the blood-letting!

Quick! Our mistress--she’ll slip through our hands.”

As she spoke, the young kitchen maid Metz helped the clumsy woman up,

and Biberli also lent his aid.

Just as the jug was filled, Els, too, hastened in, snatched it from the

hand of Martsche, whose old feet were too slow for her, and hurried with

it into the entry and up the stairs, passing her father, to whom she had

called on the way down.

Casper Eysvogel stood at the bottom of the steps, and called after her

that it would not be his fault, but her father’s, if everything between

her and his son was over.

She probably heard the words, but made no answer, and hastened as fast

as her feet would carry her to her mother’s bed.

The old physician was holding the gasping woman in his arms, and Eva

knelt beside the high bedstead sobbing, as she covered the dry, burning

hand with kisses.

When Ernst Ortlieb entered the chamber of his beloved wife a cold chill

ran down his back, for the odour of musk, which he had already inhaled

beside many a deathbed, reached him.

It had come to this! The end which he had so long delayed by tender love

and care was approaching. The flower which had adorned his youth and,

spite of its broken stem, had grown still dearer and was treasured

beyond everything else that bloomed in his garden, would be torn from

him.

This time no friendly potion had helped her to sleep through the noise

of the thunderstorm. Soon after the attack of convulsions the agitated,

feeble sufferer had started up in terror at the first loud peal of

thunder. Fright followed fright, and when the leech came voluntarily to

enquire for her, he found a dying woman.

The bleeding restored her to consciousness for a short time, and she

evidently recognised her husband and her children. To the former

she gave a grateful, tender glance of love, to Els an affectionate,

confidential gesture, but Eva, her pride and joy, whom the past night

had rendered a child of sorrow, claimed her attention most fully.

Her kind, gentle eyes rested a long time upon her: then she looked

toward her husband as if beseeching him to cherish this child with

special tenderness in his heart; and when he returned the glance with

another, in which all the wealth of his great and loyal love shone

through his tears, her fever-flushed features brightened. Memories of

the spring of her love seemed to irradiate her last moments and, as her

eyes again rested on Eva, her lips once more smiled with the bewitching

expression, once her husband’s delight, which had long deserted them.

It seemed during this time as if she had forgotten the faithful nurse

who for years had willingly sacrificed the pleasures of her days and the

sleep of her nights, to lavish upon the child of her anxiety all that

her mother-heart still contained, which was naught save love.

Els doubtless noticed it, but with no bitter or sorrowful thoughts. She

and the beloved dying woman understood one another. Each knew what she

was to the other. Her mother need not doubt, nor did she, that, whatever

obstacles life might place in her pathway, Els would pursue the right

course even without counsel and guidance. But Eva needed her love and

care so much just now, and when the sufferer gave her older daughter

also a tender glance and vainly strove to falter a few words of thanks,

Els herself replaced in Eva’s the hand which her mother had withdrawn.

Fran Maria nodded gently to Els, as if asking her sensible elder

daughter to watch over her forsaken sister in her place.

Then her eyes again sought her husband, but the priest, to whom she had

just confessed, approached her instead.

After the holy man had performed the duties of his office, she again

turned her head toward Eva. It seemed as though she was feasting her

eyes on her daughter’s charms. Meanwhile she strove to utter what more

she desired to say, but the bystanders understood only the words--they

were her last: “We thought--should be untouched--But now Heaven----”

Here she paused and, after closing her eyes for a time, went on in a

lower but perfectly distinct tone: “You are good--I hope--the forge-fire

of life--it is fortunate for you The heart and its demands The

hap--pi--ness--which it--gave--me----It ought--it must--you, too----”

Whilst speaking she had again glanced towards her husband, then at the

Abbess Kunigunde, who knelt beside him, and as the abbess met the look

she thought, “She is entrusting the child to me, and desires Eva to

be happy as one of us and the fairest of the brides of Heaven!” Ernst

Ortlieb, wholly overpowered by the deepest grief, was far from enquiring

into the meaning of these last words of his beloved dying wife.

Els, on the contrary, who had learned to read the sufferer’s features

and understood her even without words when speech was difficult, had

watched every change in the expression of her features with the utmost

attention. Without reflecting or interpreting, she was sure that the

movements of her dying mother’s lips had predicted to Eva that the

“forge fire of life” would exert its purifying and moulding influence on

her also, and wished that in the world, not in the convent, she might be

as happy as she herself had been rendered by her father’s love.

After these farewell words Frau Maria’s features became painfully

distorted, the lids drooped over her eyes, there was a brief struggle,

then a slight gesture from the physician announced to the weeping group

that her earthly pilgrimage was over.

No one spoke. All knelt silently, with clasped hands, beside the couch,

until Eva, as if roused from a dream, shrieked, “She will never come

back again!” and with passionate grief threw herself upon the lifeless

form to kiss the still face and beseech her to open her dear eyes once

more and not leave her.

How often she had remained away from the invalid in order to let her

aunt point out the path for her own higher happiness whilst Els nursed

her mother; but now that she had left her, she suddenly felt what she

had possessed and lost in her love. It seemed as if hitherto she had

walked beneath the shadow of leafy boughs, and her mother’s death

had stripped them all away as an autumn tempest cruelly tears off

the foliage. Henceforth she must walk in the scorching sun without

protection or shelter. Meanwhile she beheld in imagination fierce flames

blazing brightly from the dark soot--the forge fire of life, to which

the dead woman’s last words had referred. She knew what her mother had

wished to say, but at the present time she lacked both the desire and

the strength to realise it.

For a time each remained absorbed by individual grief. Then the father

drew both girls to his heart and confessed that, with their mother’s

death life, already impoverished by the loss of his only son, had been

bereft of its last charm. His most ardent desire was to be summoned soon

to follow the departed ones.

Els summoned up her courage and asked: “And we--are we nothing to you,

father?”

Surprised by this rebuke, he started, removed his wet handkerchief from

his eyes, and answered: “Yes, yes--but the old do not reckon Ay, much is

left to me. But he who is robbed of his best possession easily forgets

the good things remaining, and good you both are.”

He kissed his daughter lovingly as he spoke, as if wishing to retract

the words which had wounded her; then gazing at the still face of the

dead, he said: “Before you dress her, leave her alone with me for a

time----There is a wild turmoil here and here”--he pointed to his breast

and brow--“and yet The last hours----There is so much to settle and

consider in a future without her With her, with her dear calm features

before my eyes----”

Here a fresh outburst of grief stifled his voice; but Els pointed to the

image of the Virgin on the wall and beckoned to her sister.

Wholly engrossed by her own sorrow, Eva had scarcely heeded her father’s

words, and now impetuously refused to leave her mother. Herr Ernst,

pleased by this immoderate grief for the one dearest to him, permitted

her to remain, and asked Els to attend to the outside affairs which a

death always brought with it.

Els accepted the new duty as a matter of course and went to the door;

but at the threshold she turned back, rushed to the deathbed, kissed the

pure brow and closed eyelids of the sleeper, and then knelt beside her

in silent prayer. When she rose she clasped Eva, who had knelt and risen

with her, in a close embrace, and whispered: “Whatever happens, you may

rely on me.”

Then she consulted her father concerning certain arrangements which must

be made, and also asked him what she should say to the maid’s lover, who

had come to beseech his forgiveness.

“Tell him to leave me in peace!” cried Herr Ernst vehemently. Els tried

to intercede for the servant, but her father pressed both hands over his

ears, exclaiming: “Who can reach a decision when he is out of his senses

himself? Let the man come to-morrow, or the day after. Whoever may call,

I will see no one, and don’t wish to know who is here.”

But the peace and solitude for which he longed seemed denied him. A few

hours after he left the chamber of death he was obliged to go to the

Town Hall on business which could not be deferred; and when, shortly

before sunset, he returned home and locked himself into his own room,

old Eysvogel again appeared.

He looked pale and agitated, and ordered the manservant--who denied

him admittance as he had been directed--to call Jungfrau Els. His voice

trembled as he entreated her to persuade her father to see him again.

The matter in question was the final decision of the fate of his ancient

house, of Wolff, and also her own and her marriage with his son. Perhaps

the death of his beloved wife might render her father’s mood more

gentle. He did not yet know all Now he must learn it. If he again said

“No,” it would seal the ruin of the Eysvogel firm.

How imploringly he could plead! how humbly the words fell from the old

merchant’s lips, moving Els to her inmost heart as she remembered the

curt inflexibility with which, only yesterday, this arrogant man, in

that very spot, had refused any connection with the Ortliebs! How much

it must cost him to bow his stiff neck before her, who was so much

younger, and approach her father, whose heart he had so pitilessly

trampled under foot, in the character of a supplicant for aid, perhaps a

beggar!

Besides, Wolff was his son!

Whatever wrong the father had done her she must forget it, and the task

was not difficult; for now--she felt it--no matter from what motive,

he honestly desired to unite her to his son. If her lover now led her

through the door adorned with the huge, showy escutcheon, she would

no longer come as a person unwillingly tolerated, but as a welcome

helper-perhaps as the saviour of the imperilled house. Of the women of

the Eysvogel family she forbade herself to think.

How touching the handsome, aristocratic, grey-haired man seemed to her

in his helpless weakness! If her father would only receive him, he would

find it no easier than she to deny him the compassion he so greatly

needed.

She knocked at the lonely mourner’s door and was admitted.

He was sitting, with his head bowed on his hands, opposite to the

large portrait of her dead mother in her bridal robes. The dusk of the

gathering twilight concealed the picture, but he had doubtless gazed

long at the lovely features, and still beheld them with his mental

vision.

Els was received with a mournful greeting; but when Herr Ernst heard

what had brought her to him, he fiercely commanded her to tell Herr

Casper that he would have nothing more to do with him.

Els interceded for the unfortunate man, begging, pleading, and assuring

her father that she would never give up Wolff. The happiness of her

whole life was centred in him and his love. If he refused the Eysvogels

the aid besought by the old merchant who, in his humility, seemed a

different man----

Here her father indignantly broke in, ordering her to disturb him no

longer. But now the heritage of his own nature asserted itself in Els

and, with an outburst of indignation, she pointed to the picture of

her mother, whose kind heart certainly could not have endured to see

a broken-hearted man, on whose rescue the happiness of her own child

depended, turned from her door like an importunate beggar.

At this the man whose locks had long been grey sprang from his chair

with the agility of a youth, exclaiming in vehement excitement: “To

embitter the hours devoted to the most sacred grief is genuine Eysvogel

selfishness. Everything for themselves! What do they care for others?

I except your Wolff; let the future decide what concerns him and you. I

will stand by you. But to hope for happiness and peace-nay, even a life

without bitter sorrow for you from the rest of the kin--is to expect to

gather sweet pears from juniper bushes. Ever since your betrothal your

mother and I have had no sleep, disturbed whenever we talked to each

other about your being condemned to live under the same roof with that

old devil, the countess, her pitiable daughter, and that worthless

Siebenburg. But within the past few hours all this has been changed.

The table-cloth has been cut between the Eysvogels and the Ortliebs.

No power in the world can ever join it. I have not told you what has

happened. Now you may learn that you----But first listen, and then

decide on whose side you will stand.

“Early this morning I went to the session of the Council. In the

market-place I met first one member of it, then a second, third, and

fourth; each asked me what had happened to the beautiful E, my lovely

little daughter. Gradually I learned what had reached their ears.

Yesterday evening, on his way home from here, the man outside, Casper

Eysvogel, sullied your--our--good name, child, in a way I have just

learned the particulars. He boasted, in the presence of those estimable

old gentlemen, the Brothers Ebner, that he had flung at my feet the ring

which bound you to his son. You had been surprised at midnight, he said,

in the arms of a Swiss knight, and that base scoundrel Siebenburg,

his daughter’s husband, dared at the gaming-table, before a number of

knights and gentlemen--among them young Hans Gross, Veit Holzschuher,

and others-to put your interview with the Swiss in so false a light that

No, I cannot bring my lips to utter it----

“You need hear only this one thing more: the wretch said that he thanked

his patron saint that they had discovered the jade’s tricks in time. And

this, child, was the real belief of the whole contemptible crew! But now

that the water is up to their necks, and they need my helping hand to

save them from drowning-now they will graciously take Ernst Ortlieb’s

daughter if he will give them his property into the bargain, that they

may destroy both fortune and child. No--a thousand times no! It is not

seemly, at this hour, to yield to the spirit of hate; but she who is

lying in her last sleep above would not have counselled me by a single

word to such suicidal folly. I did not learn the worst until I went to

the Council, or I would have turned the importunate fellow from the door

this morning. Tell the old man so, and add that Ernst Ortlieb will have

nothing more to do with him.”

Here the deeply incensed father pointed to the door.

Els had listened with eyes dilating in horror. The result surpassed her

worst fears.

She had felt so secure in her innocence, and the countess had interceded

for her so cleverly that, absorbed by anxieties concerning Eva,

Cordula, and her mother, she had already half forgotten the disagreeable

incident.

Yet, now that her fair name was dragged through the mire, she could

scarcely be angry with those who pointed the finger of scorn at her; for

faithlessness to a betrothed lover was an offence as great as infidelity

to a husband. Nay, her friends were more ready to condemn a girl who

broke her vow than a wife who forgot her duty.

And if Wolff, in his biding-place in the citadel, should learn what was

said of his Els, to whom yesterday old and young raised their hats in

glad yet respectful greeting, would he not believe those who appealed to

his own father?

Yet ere she had fully realised this fear, she told herself that it was

her duty and her right to thrust it aside. Wolff would not be Wolff if

even for a moment he believed such a thing possible. They ought not,

could not, doubt each other. Though all Nuremberg should listen to the

base calumny and turn its back upon her, she was sure of her Wolff. Ay,

he would cherish her with twofold tenderness when he learned by whom

this terrible suffering had been inflicted upon her.

Drawing a long breath, she again fixed her eyes upon her mother’s

portrait. Had she now rushed out to tell the old man who had so cruelly

injured her--oh, it would have lightened her heart!--the wrong he

had done and what she thought of him, her mother would certainly have

stopped her, saying: “Remember that he is your betrothed husband’s

father.” She would not forget it; she could not even hate the ruined

man.

Any effort to change her father’s mood now--she saw it plainly--would

be futile. Later, when his just anger had cooled, perhaps he might be

persuaded to aid the endangered house.

Herr Ernst gazed after her sorrowfully as, with a gesture of farewell,

she silently left the room to tell her lover’s father that he had come

in vain.

The old merchant was waiting in the entry, where the wails of the

servants and the women in the neighbourhood who, according to custom,

were beating their brows and breasts and rending their garments, could

be heard distinctly.

Deadly pale, as if ready to sink, he tottered towards the door.

When Els saw him hesitate at the top of the few steps leading to the

entry, she gave him her arm to support him down. As he cautiously put

one foot after the other on the stairs, she wondered how it was possible

that this man, whose tall figure and handsome face were cast in so noble

a mould, could believe her to be so base; and at the same moment she

remembered the words which old Berthold Vorchtel had uttered in her

presence to his son Ulrich: “If anything obscure comes between you and a

friend, obtain a clear understanding and peace by truth.”

Had the young man who had irritated his misjudged friend into crossing

swords with him followed this counsel, perhaps he would have been alive

now. She would take it herself, and frankly ask Wolff’s father what

justified him in accusing her of so base a deed.

The lamps were already lighted in the hall, and the rays from the

central one fell upon Herr Casper’s colourless face, which wore an

expression of despair. But just as her lips parted to ask the question

the odour of musk reached her from the death-chamber, whose door Eva

had opened. Her mother’s gentle face, still in death, rose before her

memory, and she was forced to exert the utmost self-control not to

weep aloud. Without further reflection she imposed silence upon herself

and--yesterday she would not have ventured to do it--threw her arm

around Herr Casper’s shoulders, gazed affectionately at him, and

whispered: “You must not despair, father. You have a faithful ally in

this house in Els.”

The old man looked down at her in astonishment, but instead of drawing

her closer to him he released himself with courteous coldness, saying

bitterly: “There is no longer any bond between us and the Ortliebs,

Jungfrau Els. From this day forth I am no more your father than you

are the bride of my son. Your will may be good, but how little it can

accomplish has unfortunately been proved.”

Shrugging his shoulders wearily as he spoke, he nodded a farewell and

left the house.

Four bearers were waiting outside with the sedan-chair, three servants

with torches, and two stout attendants carrying clubs over their

shoulders. All wore costly liveries of the Eysvogel colours, and when

their master had taken his seat in the gilded conveyance and the men

lifted it, Els heard a weaver’s wife, who lived near by, say to her

little boy: “That’s the rich Herr Eysvogel, Fritzel. He has as much

money to spend every hour as we have in a whole year, and he is a very

happy man.”