‘I will!  I do!’ said Margarita.

‘Lisbeth!  Lisbeth!’ called Gottlieb.  ’Breakfast, little sister! our champion is starving.  He asks for wurst, milk-loaves, wine, and all thy rarest conserves.  Haste, then, for the honour of Cologne is at stake.’

Aunt Lisbeth jingled her keys in and out, and soon that harmony drew a number of domestics with platters of swine flesh, rolls of white wheaten bread, the perpetual worst, milk, wine, barley-bread, and household stores of dainties in profusion, all sparkling on silver, relieved by spotless white cloth.  Gottlieb beheld such a sunny twinkle across the Goshawk’s face at this hospitable array, that he gave the word of onset without waiting for Berthold, and his guest immediately fell to, and did not relax in his exertions for a full half-hour by the Cathedral clock, eschewing the beer with a wry look made up of scorn and ruefulness, and drinking a well-brimmed health in Rhine wine all round.  Margarita was pensive:  Aunt Lisbeth on her guard.  Gottlieb remembered Charles the Great’s counsel to Archbishop Turpin, and did his best to remain on earth one of its lords dominant.

‘Poor Berthold!’ said he. ’’Tis a good lad, and deserves his seat at my table oftener.  I suppose the flower-pot business has detained him.  We’ll drink to him:  eh, Grete?’

‘Drink to him, dear father!—­but here he is to thank you in person.’

Margarita felt a twinge of pity as Berthold entered.  The livid stains of his bruise deepened about his eyes, and gave them a wicked light whenever they were fixed intently; but they looked earnest; and spoke of a combat in which he could say that he proved no coward and was used with some cruelty.  She turned on the Goshawk a mute reproach; yet smiled and loved him well when she beheld him stretch a hand of welcome and proffer a brotherly glass to Berthold.  The rich goldsmith’s son was occupied in studying the horoscope of his fortunes in Margarita’s eyes; but when Margarita directed his attention to Guy, he turned to him with a glance of astonishment that yielded to cordial greeting.

‘Well done, Berthold, my brave boy!  All are friends who sit at table,’ said Gottlieb.  ’In any case, at my table: 

          “’Tis a worthy foe
          Forgives the blow
          Was dealt him full and fairly,”

says the song; and the proverb takes it up with, “A generous enemy is a friend on the wrong side”; and no one’s to blame for that, save old Dame Fortune.  So now a bumper to this jovial make-up between you.  Lisbeth! you must drink it.’

The little woman bowed melancholy obedience.

‘Why did you fling and run?’ whispered Guy to Berthold.

‘Because you were two against one.’

’Two against one, man!  Why, have you no such thing as fair play in this land of yours?  Did you think I should have taken advantage of that?’

‘How could I tell who you were, or what you would do?’ muttered Berthold, somewhat sullenly.