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himself, took a rapid survey, and called to the stranger to follow and help give the young maiden safe conduct home.

      ‘Just then Henker Rothhals bellowed, ‘Time’s up!’ He was answered by a chorus of agreement from the troop. They had hitherto patiently acted their parts as spectators, immovable on their horses. The assault on the Thier was all in the play, and a visible interference of fortune in favour of Henker Rothhals. Now general commotion shuttled them, and the stranger’s keen hazel eyes read their intentions rightly when he lifted his redoubtable staff in preparation for another mighty swoop, this time defensive. Rothhals, and half a dozen others, with a war-cry of curses, spurred their steeds at once to ride him down. They had not reckoned the length and good-will of their antagonist’s weapon. Scarce were they in motion, when round it whizzed, grazing the nostrils of their horses with a precision that argued practice in the feat, and unhorsing two, Rothhals among the number. He dropped heavily on his head, and showed signs of being as incapable of combat as the Thier. A cheer burst from the crowd, but fell short.

      The foremost of their number was struck flat to the earth by a fellow of the troop.

      Calling on St. George, his patron saint, the stranger began systematically to make a clear ring in his path forward. Several of the horsemen essayed a cut at his arm with their long double-handed swords, but the horses could not be brought a second time to the edge of the magic circle; and the blood of these warriors being thoroughly up, they now came at him on foot. In their rage they would have made short work with the three, in spite of the magistracy of Cologne, had they not been arrested by cries of ‘Werner! Werner!’

      At the South-west end of the square, looking Rhinewards, rode the marauder Baron, in full armour, helm and hauberk, with a single retainer in his rear. He had apparently caught sight of the brawl, and, either because he distinguished his own men, or was seeking his natural element, hastened up for his share in it, which was usually that of the king of beasts. His first call was for Schwartz Thier. The men made way, and he beheld his man in no condition to make military responses. He shouted for Henker Rothhals, and again the men opened their ranks mutely, exhibiting the two stretched out in diverse directions, with their feet slanting to a common point. The Baron glared; then caught off his mailed glove, and thrust it between his teeth. A rasping gurgle of oaths was all they heard, and presently surged up,

      ‘Who was it?’

      Margarita’s eyes were shut. She opened them fascinated with horror. There was an unearthly awful and comic mixture of sounds in Werner’s querulous fury, that was like the noise of a complaining bear, rolling up from hollow-chested menace to yawning lament. Never in her life had Margarita such a shock of fear. The half gasp of a laugh broke on her trembling lips. She stared at Werner, and was falling; but Farina’s arm clung instantly round her waist. The stranger caught up her laugh, loud and hearty.

      ‘As for who did it, Sir Baron,’ he cried, is a cheery tone, ‘I am the man! As you may like to know why—and that’s due to you and me both of us—all I can say is, the Black Muzzle yonder lying got his settler for merry-making with this peaceful maiden here, without her consent—an offence in my green island they reckon a crack o’ the sconce light basting for, I warrant all company present,’ and he nodded sharply about. ‘As for the other there, who looks as if a rope had been round his neck once and shirked its duty, he counts his wages for helping the devil in his business, as will any other lad here who likes to come on and try.’

      Werner himself, probably, would have given him the work he wanted; but his eye had sidled a moment over Margarita, and the hardly-suppressed applause of the crowd at the stranger’s speech failed to bring his ire into action this solitary time.

      ‘Who is the maiden?’ he asked aloud.

      ‘Fraulein von Groschen,’ replied Farina.

      ‘Von Groschen! Von Groschen! the daughter of Gottlieb Groschen?—Rascals!’ roared the Baron, turning on his men, and out poured a mud-spring of filthy oaths and threats, which caused Henker Rothhals, who had opened his eyes, to close them again, as if he had already gone to the place of heat.

      ‘Only lend me thy staff, friend,’ cried Werner.

      ‘Not I! thwack ‘em with your own wood,’ replied the stranger, and fell back a leg.

      Werner knotted his stringy brows, and seemed torn to pieces with the different pulling tides of his wrath. He grasped the mane of his horse and flung abroad handfuls, till the splendid animal reared in agony.

      ‘You shall none of you live over this night, villains! I ‘ll hang you, every hag’s son! My last orders were,—Keep quiet in the city, ye devil’s brood. Take that! and that!’ laying at them with his bare sword. ‘Off with you, and carry these two pigs out of sight quickly, or I’ll have their heads, and make sure o’ them.’

      The latter injunction sprang from policy, for at the head of the chief street there was a glitter of the city guard, marching with shouldered spears.

      ‘Maiden,’ said Werner, with a bull’s bow, ‘let me conduct thee to thy father.’

      Margarita did not reply; but gave her hand to Farina, and took a step closer to the stranger.

      Werner’s brows grew black.

      ‘Enough to have saved you, fair maid,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘Gratitude never was a woman’s gift. Say to your father that I shall make excuses to him for the conduct of my men.’

      Whereupon, casting a look of leisurely scorn toward the guard coming up in the last beams of day, the Baron shrugged his huge shoulders to an altitude expressing the various contemptuous shades of feudal coxcombry, stuck one leather-ruffled arm in his side, and jolted off at an easy pace.

      ‘Amen!’ ejaculated the stranger, leaning on his staff. ‘There are Barons in my old land; but never a brute beast in harness.’

      Margarita stood before him, and took his two hands.

      ‘You will come with me to my father! He will thank you. I cannot. You will come?’

      Tears and a sob of relief started from her.

      The city guard, on seeing Werner’s redoubtable back turned, had adopted double time, and now came panting up, while the stranger bent smiling under a fresh overflow of innocent caresses. Margarita was caught to her father’s breast.

      ‘You shall have vengeance for this, sweet chuck,’ cried old Gottlieb in the intervals of his hugs.

      ‘Fear not, my father; they are punished’: and Margarita related the story of the stranger’s prowess, elevating him into a second Siegfried. The guard huzzaed him, but did not pursue the Baron.

      Old Gottlieb, without hesitation, saluted the astonished champion with a kiss on either cheek.

      ‘My best friend! You have saved my daughter from indignity! Come with us home, if you can believe that a home where the wolves come daring us, dragging our dear ones from our very doorsteps. Come, that we may thank you under a roof at least. My little daughter! Is she not a brave lass?’

      ‘She’s nothing less than the white rose of Germany,’ said the stranger, with a good bend of the shoulders to Margarita.

      ‘So she’s called,’ exclaimed Gottlieb; ‘she ‘s worthy to be a man!’

      ‘Men would be the losers, then, more than they could afford,’ replied the stranger, with a ringing laugh.

      ‘Come, good friend,’ said Gottlieb; ‘you must need refreshment. Prove you are a true hero by your appetite. As Charles the Great said to Archbishop Turpin, “I conquered the world because Nature gave me a gizzard; for everywhere the badge of subjection is a poor stomach.” Come, all! A day well ended, notwithstanding!’

      THE SILVER ARROW

      At the threshold of Gottlieb’s house a number of the chief burgesses of Cologne had corporated spontaneously to condole with him. As he came near, they raised a hubbub of gratulation. Strong were the expressions of abhorrence and disgust of Werner’s troop in which these excellent citizens clothed their outraged feelings; for the insult to Gottlieb was the insult of all. The Rhinestream

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