’The wild boar lay a-grunting,
A-grunting, tra-ra.’

’A maiden’s true and proper ornament!  Look at mine, child!  I have worn it fifty years.  May I deserve to wear it till I am called!  O Margarita! trifle not with that symbol.’

’"O birdie, and boar, and deer, lie tame!”

I am so happy, aunty.’

‘Nice times to be happy in, Margarita.’

       “Be happy in Spring, sweet maidens all,
        For Autumn’s chill will early fall.”

So sings the Minnesinger, aunty; and

       ’"A maiden in the wintry leaf
        Will spread her own disease of grief.”

I love the Minnesingers!  Dear, sweet-mannered men they are!  Such lovers!  And men of deeds as well as song:  sword on one side and harp on the other.  They fight till set of sun, and then slacken their armour to waft a ballad to their beloved by moonlight, covered with stains of battle as they are, and weary!’

’What a girl!  Minnesingers!  Yes; I know stories of those Minnesingers.  They came to the castle—­Margarita, a bead of thy cross is broken.  I will attend to it.  Wear the pearl one till I mend this.  May’st thou never fall in the way of Minnesingers.  They are not like Werner’s troop.  They do not batter at doors:  they slide into the house like snakes.’

‘Lisbeth!  Lisbeth!’ they heard Gottlieb calling impatiently.

‘We come, Gottlieb!’ and in a low murmur Margarita heard her say:  ’May this day pass without trouble and shame to the pious and the chaste.’

Margarita knew the voice of the stranger before she had opened the door, and on presenting herself, the hero gave her a guardian-like salute.

‘One may see,’ he said, ’that it requires better men than those of Werner to drive away the rose from that cheek.’

Gottlieb pressed the rosy cheek to his shoulder and patted her.

’What do you think, Grete?  You have now forty of the best lads in Cologne enrolled to protect you, and keep guard over the house night and day.  There!  What more could a Pfalzgrafin ask, now?  And voluntary service; all to be paid with a smile, which I daresay my lady won’t refuse them.  Lisbeth, you know our friend.  Fear him not, good Lisbeth, and give us breakfast.  Well, sweet chuck, you’re to have royal honours paid you.  I warrant they’ve begun good work already in locking up that idle moony vagabond, Farina—­’

‘Him?  What for, my father?  How dared they!  What has he done?’

’O, start not, my fairy maid!  A small matter of breakage, pet!  He tried to enter Cunigonde Schmidt’s chamber, and knocked down her pot of lilies:  for which Berthold Schmidt knocked him down, and our friend here, out of good fellowship, knocked down Berthold.  However, the chief offender is marched off to prison by your trusty guard, and there let him cool himself.  Berthold shall tell you the tale himself:  he’ll be here to breakfast, and receive your orders, mistress commander-in-chief.’