“It was not possible.  And the man insulted me, not you.  A woman?  Very well.  I can defend myself against everything but calumny.  Have I made a laughing stock of you?  It is nothing to me.  It would not have altered my—­”

She was very white, and she stroked her forehead.

“Well?” said I.

“It would not have altered my determination to take the sword in hand again.”

She put her hand to her throat as though something there had tightened.

“Ah, I am a woman, for I believe that I am about to faint!  No!” imperiously, as I threw out my arms to catch her.  “I can reach the door alone, without assistance.”

And so we went along.  I did not know what to do, nor yet what to say.  A conflict was raging in my heart between shame and love; shame, that a woman had fought for me and won where I should have lost; love, that strove to spring from my lips in exultation.  I knew not which would have conquered had I not espied the blood on Gretchen’s white hand.

“You are wounded!” I cried.

She gazed at her hand as though she did not understand; then, with a little sob and a little choke she extended her arms toward me and stumbled.  Was ever there a woman who could look on blood without fainting?  Gretchen had not quite fainted, but the moon had danced, she said, and all had grown dim.

“Gretchen, why did you risk your life?  In God’s name, what manner of woman are you, and where did you learn to use the sword?  Had you no thought of me?” I was somewhat incoherent.

“No thought of you?” She drew the back of her hand over her eyes.  “No thought of you?  I did it because—­because I did not—­I could not—­you would have been killed!”

I was a man—­human.  I loved her.  I had always loved her; I had never loved any one else.  I was a coward to do what I did, but I could not help it.  I crushed her to my breast and kissed her lips, not once, but many times.

“How dare you!” weakly.

“How dare I, Gretchen, dear Gretchen?” I said.  “I dare because I love you!  I love you!  What is it to me that you have dishonored me in the eyes of men?  Nothing.  I love you!  Are you a barmaid?  I care not.  Are you a conspirator?  I know not, nor care.  I know but one thing:  I love you; I shall always love you!  Shall I tell you more?  Gretchen, you love me!”

“No, no! it cannot be!” she sobbed, pushing me back.  “I am the most wretched woman in the world!  Do not follow me, Herr; leave me, I beg you to leave me.  I have need of the little strength left.  Leave me, leave me!”

And she passed through the doorway into the darkness beyond.  I did not move from where I stood.  I grew afraid that it was a dream, and that if I moved it would vanish.  I could yet feel her lithe, warm body palpitating in my arms; my lips still tingled and burned with the flame of hers.  An exultant wave swept over me; she loved me!  She had not told me so, but I knew.  She had put her heart before mine; my life was dearer to her than her own.  I could have laughed for joy.  She loved me!  My love overwhelmed my shame, engulfed it.  Then—­