“And the younger,” cried Heinz joyously, “honours with her gracious innocence the name of her through whom sin came into the world.”

“But you, Sir Knight,” exclaimed Wolff fiercely, “would do better not to name sin and Eva Ortlieb in the same breath.  If you are of a different opinion——­”

“Then,” interrupted the Swiss, “we come back to warming the iron.”

“As you say,” cried Wolff resolutely.  “In spite of the peace of the country, I will be at your service at any time.  As you see, I went out unarmed, and it would not be well done to cross swords here.”

“Certainly not,” Heinz assented.  “But many days and nights will follow this moonlight one, and that you may have little difficulty in finding me whenever you desire, know that my name is Heinrich—­or to more intimate friends, among whom you might easily be numbered if we don’t deprive each other of the pleasure of meeting again under the sun—­Heinz Schorlin.”

“Schorlin?” asked Wolff in surprise.  “Then you are the knight who, when a beardless boy, cut down on the Marchfield the Bohemian whose lance had slain the Emperor’s charger, the Swiss who aided him to mount the steed of Ramsweg of Thurgau—­your uncle, if I am not mistaken—­and then took the wild ride to bring up the tall Capeller, with his troops, who so gloriously decided the day.”

“And,” laughed Heinz, “who was finally borne off the field as dead before the fulfilment of his darling wish to redden Swiss steel with royal Bohemian blood.  This closed the chronicle, Herr—­what shall I call you?”

“Wolff Eysvogel, of Nuremberg,” replied the other.

“Aha!  A son of the rich merchant where the Duke of Gulich found quarters?” cried the Swiss, lifting his cap bordered with fine miniver.  “May confusion seize me!  If I were not my father’s son, I wouldn’t mind changing places with you.  It must make the neck uncommonly stiff, methinks, to have a knightly escutcheon on door and breast, and yet be able to fling florins and zecchins broadcast without offending the devil by an empty purse.  If you don’t happen to know how such a thing looks, I can show you.”

“Yet rumour says,” observed Wolff, “that the Emperor is gracious to you, and knows how to fill it again.”

“If one doesn’t go too far,” replied Heinz, “and my royal master, who lacks spending money himself only too often, doesn’t keep his word that it was done for the last time.  I heard that yesterday morning, and thought that the golden blessing which preceded it would last the dear saints only knew how long.  But ere the cock had crowed even once this morning the last florin had vanished.  Dice, Herr Wolff Eysvogel—­dice!”

“Then I would keep my hands off them,” said the other meaningly.

“If the Old Nick or some one else did not always guide them back!  Did you, a rich man’s son, never try what the dice would do for you?”

“Yes, Sir Knight.  It was at Venice, where I was pursuing my studies, and tried my luck at gambling on many a merry evening with other sons of mercantile families from Nuremberg, Augsburg, and Cologne.”