Emperor Rudolph endure this?  But a few months ago death had snatched from him his wife, the love of his youth, the mother of his children, the companion of his glorious career!  The thought of him stirred Heinz to the depths of his soul, and he would fain have hastened at once to the castle to help the stricken father bear the new and terrible burden imposed upon him.  But he must first care for the messenger of these terrible tidings who, with lips white from exhaustion, needed refreshment.

Biberli, who saw and thought of everything, had already urged the hostess to do what she could, and sent the servant to the tailor that, when Heinz rode to the fortress, he might not lack the mourning—­a tabard would suffice—­which could be made in a few hours.

Frau Barbara had just brought the lunch and promised to obey the command to keep the terrible news which she had just heard a secret from every one, that the rumor might not reach the fortress prematurely, when another visitor appeared—­Heinz Schorlin’s cousin, Sir Arnold Maier of Silenen, a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with stalwart frame and powerful limbs.

His grave, bronzed countenance, framed by a grey beard, revealed that he, too, brought no cheering news.  He had never come to his young cousin’s at so early an hour.

His intelligent, kindly grey eyes surveyed Heinz with astonishment.  What had befallen the happy-hearted fellow?  But when he heard the news which had wet the young knight’s eyes with tears, his own lips also quivered, and his deep, manly tones faltered as he laid his heavy hands on the mourner’s shoulders and gazed tearfully into his eyes.  At last he exclaimed mournfully:  “My poor, poor boy!  Pray to Him to whom we owe all that is good, and who tries us with the evil.  Would to God I had less painful tidings for you!”

Heinz shrank back, but his cousin told him the tidings learned from a Swiss messenger scarcely an hour before.  The dispute over the bridge toll had caused a fight.  The uncle who supplied a father’s place to Heinz and managed his affairs—­brave old Walther Ramsweg—­was killed; Schorlin Castle had been taken by the city soldiery and, at the command of the chief magistrate, razed to the ground.  Wendula Schorlin, Heinz’s mother, with her daughter Maria, had fallen into the hands of the city soldiers and been carried to the convent in Constance, where she and her youngest child now remained with the two older daughters.

Heinz, deeply agitated by the news, exclaimed:  “Uncle Ramsweg, our kind second father, also in the grave without my being able to press his brave, loyal hand in farewell!  And Maria, our singing bird, our nimble little squirrel, with those grave, world-weary Sisters!  And my mother!  You, too, like every one, love her, Cousin—­and you know her.  She who has been accustomed to command, and to manage the house and the lands, who like a saint dried tears far and near amid trouble