’She shall have ribbons and trinkets,
And shine like a morn of May,
When we are off to the little hill-church,
Our flowery bridal way.’

‘That she shall; and something more!’ cried Gottlieb.  ’But, hark thee, Gretelchen; the Kaiser will be here in three days.  Thou dear one! had I not stored and hoarded all for thee, I should now have my feet on a hearthstone where even he might warm his boot.  So get thy best dresses and jewels in order, and look thyself; proud as any in the land.  A simple burgher’s daughter now, Grete; but so shalt thou not end, my butterfly, or there’s neither worth nor wit in Gottlieb Groschen!’

‘Three days!’ Margarita exclaimed; ’and the helm not finished, and the tapestry-pieces not sewed and joined, and the water not shaded off.—­Oh!  I must work night and day.’

’Child!  I’ll have no working at night!  Your rosy cheeks will soon be sucked out by oil-light, and you look no better than poor tallow Court beauties—­to say nothing of the danger.  This old house saw Charles the Great embracing the chief magistrate of his liege city yonder.  Some swear he slept in it.  He did not sneeze at smaller chambers than our Kaisers abide.  No gold ceilings with cornice carvings, but plain wooden beams.’

’Know that the men of great renown,
Were men of simple needs: 
Bare to the Lord they laid them down,
And slept on mighty deeds.’

’God wot, there’s no emptying thy store of ballads, Grete:  so much shall be said of thee.  Yes; times are changeing:  We’re growing degenerate.  Look at the men of Linz now to what they were!  Would they have let the lads of Andernach float down cabbage-stalks to them without a shy back?  And why?  All because they funk that brigand-beast Werner, who gets redemption from Laach, hard by his hold, whenever he commits a crime worth paying for.  As for me, my timber and stuffs must come down stream, and are too good for the nixen under Rhine, or think you I would acknowledge him with a toll, the hell-dog?  Thunder and lightning! if old scores could be rubbed out on his hide!’

Gottlieb whirled a thong-lashing arm in air, and groaned of law and justice.  What were they coming to!

Margarita softened the theme with a verse: 

‘And tho’ to sting his enemy,
Is sweetness to the angry bee,
The angry bee must busy be,
Ere sweet of sweetness hiveth he.

The arch thrill of his daughter’s voice tickled Gottlieb.  ’That’s it, birdie!  You and the proverb are right.  I don’t know which is best,

’Better hive
And keep alive
Than vengeance wake
With that you take.’

A clatter in the cathedral square brought Gottlieb on his legs to the window.  It was a company of horsemen sparkling in harness.  One trumpeter rode at the side of the troop, and in front a standard-bearer, matted down the chest with ochre beard, displayed aloft to the good citizens of Cologne, three brown hawks, with birds in their beaks, on an azure stardotted field.