“Try it, for aught I care,” responded Heinz Schorlin cheerily.  “Unluckily for me, I live in a state of perpetual feud with good sense.  One thing, however, seems certain without any serious reflection:  the attraction which draws me here, as well as you, will not enter the cloister as a monk, but as a little nun, wears no beard, but braids her hair.  Briefly, then, if you are here for Countess Cordula von Montfort’s sake, your errand is vain; she will sleep at Kadolzburg to-night.”

“May her slumber be sweet!” replied Wolff calmly.  “She is as near to me as yonder moon.”

“That gives the matter a more serious aspect,” cried the knight angrily.  “You or I. What is your lady’s name?”

“That, to my mind, is asking too much,” replied Wolff firmly.

“And the law of love gives you the right to withhold an answer.  But, sir, we must nevertheless learn for the sake of what fairest fair we have each foregone sleep.”

“Then tell me, by your favour, your lady’s colour,” Wolff asked the Swiss.

The latter laughed gaily:  “I am still putting that question to my saint.”

Then, noticing Wolff’s shake of the head, he went on in a more serious tone:  “If you will have a little patience, I hope I may be able to tell you, ere we part.”

This assurance also seemed to Wolff an enigma.  Who in the wide world would come from under the respectable Ortlieb roof, at this hour, to tell a stranger anything whatsoever concerning one of its daughters?  Neither could have given him the right to regard her as his lady, and steal at night, like a marten, around the house which contained his dearest treasure.  This obscurity was an offence to Wolff Eysvogel, and he was not the man to submit to it.  Yonder insolent fellow should learn, to his hurt, that he had made a blunder.

But scarcely had he begun to explain to Heinz that he claimed the right to protect both the daughters of this house, the younger as well as the older, since they had no brother, when the knight interrupted: 

“Oho!  There are two of them, and she, too, spoke of a sister.  So, if it comes to sharing, sir, we need not emulate the judgment of Solomon.  Let us see!  The colour is uncertain, but to every Christian mortal a name clings as closely as a shadow and, if I mention the initial letter of the one which adorns my lady, I believe I shall commit no offence that a court of love could condemn.  The initial, which I like because it is daintily rounded and not too difficult to write-mark it well—­is ‘E.’”

Wolff Eysvogel started slightly and gripped the dagger in his belt, but instantly withdrew his hand and answered with mingled amusement and indignation:  “Thanks for your good will, Sir Knight, but this, too, brings us no nearer our goal; the E is the initial of both the Ortlieb sisters.  The elder who, as you may know, is my betrothed bride, bears the name of Elizabeth, or Els, as we say in Nuremberg.”