Again a brilliant flash of lightning pierced the black mass of clouds, and Heinz, shuddering, pointed to the crowd and asked, “Do you suppose the lightning killed the man whom they are carrying yonder?”

“Let me see,” replied Biberli, among whose small vices curiosity was by no means the least.  He must have understood news gathering thoroughly, for he soon returned and informed Heinz, who had sought shelter from the rain under the broad bow window of a lofty house, that the bearers were just carrying to his parents’ home a young man whose thread of life had been suddenly severed by a stab through the breast in a duel.  After the witnesses had taken the corpse to the leech Otto, in the Ledergasse, and the latter said that the youth was dead, they had quickly dispersed, fearing a severe punishment on account of the breach of the peace.  The murdered man was Ulrich Vorchtel, the oldest son of the wealthy Berthold Vorchel, who collected the imperial taxes.

Again Heinz shuddered.  He had seen the unfortunate young man the day before yesterday at the fencing school, and yesterday, full of overflowing mirth, at the dance, and knew that he, too, had fought in the battle of Marchfield.  His foe must have been master of the art of wielding the sword, for the dead man had been a skilful fencer, and was tall and stalwart in figure.

When the servant ended his story Heinz stood still in the darkness for a time, silently listening.  The bells had begun to ring, the blast of the watchman’s horn blended with the wailing notes summoning aid, and in two places—­near the Thiergartenthor and the Frauenthor—­the sky was crimsoned by the reflection of a conflagration, probably kindled by some flash of lightning, which flickered over the clouds, alternately rising and falling, sometimes deeper and anon paler in hue.  Throngs of people, shouting “Fire!” pressed from the cross streets into the square.  The stillness of the night was over.

When Heinz again turned to Biberli he said in a hollow tone: 

“If the earth should swallow up Nuremberg tonight it would not surprise me.  But over yonder—­look, Biber, the Duke of Pomerania’s quarters in the Green Shield are still lighted.  I’ll wager that they are yet at the gaming table.  A plague upon it!  I would be there, too, if my purse allowed.  I feel as if yonder dead man and his coffin were burdening my soul.  If it was really good fortune in love that snatched the zecchins from my purse yesterday: 

“Then,” cried Biberli eagerly, “to-night is the very time, ere Countess Cordula teaches you to forget what troubles you, to win them back.  The gold for the first stake is at your disposal.”

“From the Duke of Pomerania, you think?” asked Heinz; then, in a quick, resolute tone, added:  “No!  Often as the duke has offered me his purse, I never borrow from my peers when the prospect of repayment looks so uncertain.”