Repressed fury was seething in Ernst Ortlieb’s breast, and he would scarcely have succeeded in controlling himself longer but for the consolation afforded by the thought that every tie was sundered between his daughter and this cold, arrogant, unjust man and his haughty, evil disposed kindred.  But when he again looked for the daughter on whom his hasty act had doubtless inflicted a severe blow, she was no longer visible.

Directly after he took the ring she had glided silently, unnoticed by most of the company, up the stairs to the second story.  Cordula von Montfort told him this in a low tone.

Els had made no answer to her questions, but her imploring, tearful eyes pierced the young countess to the heart.  Her quick ear had caught Siebenburg’s malicious words and Casper Eysvogel’s harsh response and, with deep pity, she felt how keenly the poor girl must suffer.

The happiness of a whole life destroyed without any fault of her own!  From their first meeting Els had seemed to her incapable of any careless error, and she had merely tried, by her bold, interference, to protect her from the gossip of evil tongues.  But Heinz Schorlin had just approached and whispered that, by his knightly honour, Els was a total stranger to him, and he only wished he might find his own dear sister at home as pure and free from any fault.

Poor child!  But the countess knew who had frustrated her intervention in behalf of Els.  It was Sir Seitz Siebenburg, “the Mustache,” whose officious homage, at first amusing, had long since become repulsive.  Her heart shrank from the thought that, merely from vain pleasure in having a throng of admirers, she had given this scoundrel more than one glance of encouragement.  The riding whip fairly quivered in her right hand as, after informing Ernst Ortlieb where Els had gone, she warned the gentlemen that it was time to depart, and Seitz Siebenburg submissively, yet as familiarly as if he had a right to her special favour, held out his hand in farewell.

But Countess Cordula withdrew hers with visible dislike, saying in a tone of chilling repulse:  “Remember me to your wife, Sir Knight.  Tell her to take care that her twin sons resemble their father as little as possible.”

“Then you want to have two ardent admirers the less?” asked Siebenburg gaily, supposing that the countess’s remark was a jest.

But when she did not, as he expected, give these insulting words an interpretation favourable to him, but merely shrugged her shoulders scornfully, he added, glancing fiercely at the Swiss knight: 

“True, you would doubtless be better pleased should the boys grow up to resemble the lucky Sir Heinz Schorlin, for whose sake you proved yourself the inventor of tales more marvellous, if not more credible, than the most skilful travelling minstrel.”

“Perhaps so,” replied the countess with contemptuous brevity.  “But I should be satisfied if the twins—­and this agrees with my first wish should grow up honest men.  If you should pay me the honour of a visit during the next few days, Sir Seitz, I could not receive it.”