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.