True, the Ortlieb servants were attached to their employers and sincerely sorry for the ill health of the mistress of the house, but for several years the lamentations and anxiety concerning her had been ceaseless.  The young prince’s death had startled rather than saddened them.  They did not know him, but it was terrible to die so young and so suddenly.  They would not have listened to a merry tale which stirred them to laughter, but Biberli’s stories of distant lands, of the court, of war, of the tournament, just suited their present mood, and the narrator was well pleased to find ready listeners.  He had so many things to forget, and he never succeeded better than when permitted to use his tongue freely.  He wagged it valiantly, too, but when the thunderstorm burst he paused and went to the window.  His narrow face was blanched, and his agile limbs moved restlessly.  Suddenly remarking, “My master will need me,” he held out his hand to Katterle in farewell.  But as the zigzag flash of lightning had just been followed by the peal of thunder, she clung to him, earnestly beseeching him not to leave her.  He yielded, but went out to learn whether Herr Casper was still in the office, and in a short time returned, exclaiming angrily:  “The old Eysvogel seems to be building his nest here!”

Then, to the vexation of the clumsy old cook, whom he interrupted by his restless movements in the Paternosters she was repeating on her rosary, he began to stride up and down before the hearth.

His light heart had rarely been so heavy.  He could not keep his thoughts from his master, and felt sure that Heinz needed him; that he, Biberli, would have cause to regret not being with him at this moment.  Had the storm destroyed the Ortlieb mansion he would have considered it only natural; and as he glanced around the kitchen in search of Katterle, who, like most of the others, was on her knees with her rosary in her hand, old Martsche rushed in, hurried up to the cook, shook her as if to rouse her from sleep, and exclaimed:  “Hot water for the blood-letting!  Quick!  Our mistress—­she’ll slip through our hands.”

As she spoke, the young kitchen maid Metz helped the clumsy woman up, and Biberli also lent his aid.

Just as the jug was filled, Els, too, hastened in, snatched it from the hand of Martsche, whose old feet were too slow for her, and hurried with it into the entry and up the stairs, passing her father, to whom she had called on the way down.

Casper Eysvogel stood at the bottom of the steps, and called after her that it would not be his fault, but her father’s, if everything between her and his son was over.

She probably heard the words, but made no answer, and hastened as fast as her feet would carry her to her mother’s bed.

The old physician was holding the gasping woman in his arms, and Eva knelt beside the high bedstead sobbing, as she covered the dry, burning hand with kisses.