“Divine songstress of Freyer Brothers’ Brewery Harmonista Cellars!” She stopped quickly and faced half round, so as to be in a better position for retreat if he made an advance toward her.  “In the hall on Thursday—­when you made the circuit with the cup for the collection after your delightful ballad—­you refused me even a reply to my request for an interview.  That was for the favor of a salute from those somewhat thin but honeyed lips!  Now, there is nobody by and I mean to be rewarded for the bouquets I have nightly sent you!”

“Father!” cried the Jewess, too frightened by the position of her assailant to flee.

“Your father?  Bah!” with a contemptuous glance at the old man approaching only too slowly.  “I repeat, there is no one by! That I arranged for.”

The speaker had red curly hair like his whiskers; his brow was not narrow but his eyebrows overhung; his face was flushed with animation and carnal desire—­perhaps by potations, though his large lower jaw denoted ample animal courage.  He was powerful enough in the long arms and strong hands to have mastered the girl and her father, but it was not the dread of his prowess physically which awed the daughter of the race still proscribed in this part of Germany.

Frederick von Sendlingen, Baron of ancient creation, enjoyed a wide fame among the knot of noble carousers who strove to make one corner of Munich a pale reflection of the “fast” end of Paris and Vienna.  A major in a crack heavy cavalry regiment, allowed for family reasons to remain in the garrison after it had been removed elsewhere, he enjoyed enviable esteem from his superiors and the hatred and dislike of all others.  Though inclined to court after the manner of the pillager who has captured a city, his boisterous addresses pleased the wanton matrons and, more naturally, the facile Cythereans of the music halls and dance-houses.

At an early hour, he had cast his handkerchief, like an irresistible sultan, at the chief attraction of the beer cellar, which he named—­the so-called “La Belle Stamboulane,” and baffled in all his less brutal modes of attack, he had recourse to one which better suited his custom.

It looked as though he had lost time in not putting it into operation before, since the girl, around whom, taking one stride, he threw his arms, could not, by her feeble resistance, prevent him snatching a kiss.  As for her father, casting down his turkophone, and raising his staff in both hands, his valorous approach went for little, as his blow would have been as likely to fall upon his daughter as the ruffian.

While he was bewildered and his stick was raised in air, the latter, perceiving his danger, did not scruple to show his contempt for one of the despised race whom he likewise scorned for his weakness, by dealing him a kick in the leg with his heavy boot which, fairly delivered, would have broken an oaken post.  Though avoiding its full force, the unhappy father was so painfully struck that he staggered back to the opposite rail of the bridge and, clapping both hands to the bruise on the shin, groaned while he strove in vain to overcome the paralyzing agony.  From that moment he was compelled to remain as a stranger in action to the outrage.