Not one of them, nor, indeed, all of them together, stood any chance when confronting him.  They clamored to be taught, offering good money for the lessons, believing that if they acquired but a tithe of his excellence with the blade they might venture to wear it at night, and let their skill save them from capture.  But the young fellow refused their money, and somewhat haughtily declined the role of fencing-master, whereupon they unanimously elected him a member of the coterie, waiving for this one occasion the rule which forbade the choice of any but a metal-worker.  When the stranger accepted the election, he was informed that it was the duty of each member to come to the aid of his brethren when required, and they therefore requested him to teach them swordsmanship.  Roland, laughing, seeing how he had been trapped, as it were, with his own consent, acceded to the universal wish, and before a year had passed his twenty comrades were probably the leading swordsmen in the city of Frankfort.

Shortly after the disaster to the merchants’ fleet at the Lorely, Roland disappeared without a word of farewell to those who had come to think so much of him.  He had been extremely reticent regarding his profession, if he had one, and no one knew where he lodged.  It was feared that the authorities had arrested him with the sword in his possession, for he grew more reckless than any of the others in carrying the weapon.  One night, however, he reappeared, and took his seat at the head of the table as if nothing had happened.  Evidently he had traveled far and on foot, for his clothes were dusty and the worse for wear.  He refused to give any account of himself, but admitted that he was hungry, thirsty, and in need of money.

His hunger and thirst were speedily satisfied, but the money scarcity was not so easily remedied.  All the score were out of employment, with the exception of the three sword makers, whose trade the uncertainty of the times augmented rather than diminished.  To cheer up Roland, who was a young fellow of unquenchable geniality, they elected him to the empty honor of being their leader, Kurzbold’s term of office having ended.

The guild met every night now, instead of once a week, and it may be shrewdly suspected that the collation of black bread and sausage formed the sole meal of the day for many of them.  Nevertheless, their hilarity was undiminished, and the rafters rang with song and laugh, and echoed also maledictions upon a supine Government, and on the rapacious Rhine lords.  But the bestowal of even black bread and the least expensive of wine could not continue indefinitely.  They owed a bill to the landlord upon which that worthy, patient as he had proved himself, always hoping for better times, wished for at least something on account.  All his other customers had deserted him, and if they drank at all, chose some place where the wine was thin and cheap.  The landlord held out bravely for three months after Roland was elected president, then, bemoaning his fate, informed the guild that he would be compelled to close the Rheingold tavern.