The very tall one, who looked grave and anxious, was Wolff Eysvogel; the other, somewhat shorter, who swung gaily to and fro on the chain as if it afforded him much amusement, Heinz Schorlin.

Both frequently glanced up at the lighted bow-window and the smaller one on the second story, behind which Eva lay half asleep.  This was the first meeting of the two men.

Wolff, aware of his excellent right to remain on this-spot, would have shown the annoying intruder his displeasure long before, had he not supposed that the other, whom at the first glance he recognised as a knight, was one of Countess Cordula von Montfort’s admirers.  Yet he soon became unable to control his anger and impatience.  Yielding to a hasty impulse, he left the chain, but as he approached the stranger the latter gave his swaying seat a swifter motion and, without vouchsafing him either greeting or introductory remark, said carelessly, “This is a lovely night.”

“I am of the same opinion,” replied Wolff curtly.  “But I would like to ask, sir, what induced you to choose the courtyard of this house to enjoy it?”

“Induced?” asked the Swiss in astonishment; then, looking the other in the face with defiant sharpness, he added scornfully: 

“I am warming the chain because it suits me to do so.”

“You are allowed the pleasure,” returned Wolff in an irritated tone; “nay, I can understand that night birds of your sort find no better amusement.  Still, it seems to me that a knight who wishes to keep iron hot might attain his object better in another way.”

“Why, of course,” cried Heinz Schorlin, springing swiftly to his feet with rare elasticity.  “It gives a pleasant warmth when blade strikes blade or the hot blood wets them.  I am no friend to darkness, and it seems to me, sir, as if we were standing in each other’s light here.”

“There our opinions concur for the second time this lovely night,” quietly replied the patrician’s son, conscious of his unusual strength and skill in fencing, with a slight touch of scorn.  “Like you, I am always ready to cross blades with another; only, the public street is hardly the fitting place for it.”

“May the plague take you!” muttered the Swiss in assent to Wolff’s opinion.  “Besides, sir, who ever grasps iron so swiftly is worth a parley.  To ask whether you are of knightly lineage would be useless trouble, and should it come to a genuine sword-dance.

“You will find a partner in me at any time,” was the reply, “as I, who wear my ancient escutcheon with good right, would gladly give you a crimson memento of this hour—­though you were but the son of a cobbler.  But first let us ascertain—­for I, too, dislike darkness—­whether we are really standing in each other’s light.  With all due respect for your fancy for warming chains, it would be wise, ere Sir Red Coat—­[The executioner]—­puts his round our ankles for disturbing the peace, to have a sensible talk.”