Proud of his newly acquired power of resistance, he walked on, after yielding to the impulse to buy the handsomest bouquet of roses offered by the pretty flower girl Kuni, whom, on Countess Cordula’s account, during the Reichstag he had patronised more frequently than usual.  Without knowing why himself, he did not tell the pretty girl, who had already trusted him very often, for whom he intended it, but ordered it to be charged with the rest.

At the corner of the Bindergasse, where Heinz Schorlin lodged, he found a beggar woman with a bandaged head, whom he commissioned to carry the roses to the Eysvogel mansion and give them to his wife, Fran Isabella Siebenburg, in his—­Sir Seitz’s—­name.

In front of the house occupied by the master cloth-maker Deichsler, where the Swiss had his quarters, the tailor Ploss stopped him.  He came from Heinz Schorlin, and reminded Siebenburg of his by no means inconsiderable debt; but the latter begged him to have patience a little longer, as he had met with heavy losses at the gaming table the night before, and Ploss agreed to wait till St. Heinrich’s day—­[15th July].

How many besides the tailor had large demands! and when could Seitz begin to cancel his debts?  The thought even darted through his mind that instead of carrying his good intentions into effect he had not paid for the roses—­but flowers were so cheap in June!

Besides, he had no time to dwell upon this trifle, for while quieting the tailor he had noticed a girl who, notwithstanding the heat of the day, kept her face hidden so far under her Riese—­[A kerchief for the head, resembling a veil, made of fine linen.]—­that nothing but her eyes and the upper part of her nose were visible.  She had given him a hasty nod and, if he was not mistaken, it was the Ortlieb sisters’ maid, whom he had often seen.

When he again looked after the muffled figure she was hurrying up the cloth-maker’s stairs.

It was Katterle herself.

At the first landing she had glanced back, and in doing so pushed the kerchief aside.  What could she want with the Swiss?  It could scarcely be anything except to bring him a message from one of her mistresses, doubtless Els.

So he had seen aright, and acted wisely not to believe the countess.

Poor Wolff!  Deceived even when a betrothed lover!  He did not exactly wish him happiness even now, and yet he pitied him.

Seitz could now stand before Heinz Schorlin with the utmost confidence.  The Swiss must know how matters stood between the older E and him self, though his knightly duty constrained him to deny it to others.  Siebenburg’s self-reproaches had been vain.  He had suspected no innocent girl—­only called a faithless betrothed bride by the fitting name.