In the Fire of the Forge (Historical Novel) - Georg Ebers

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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.

       Table of Contents

      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

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