CHAPTER XIII.

Eva was standing at the open window.  The violence of the storm seemed exhausted.  The clouds were rolling northward, and the thunder followed the flashes of lightning at longer and longer intervals.  Peace was restored to the heavens, but the crowd and noise in the city and the street constantly increased.

The iron tongues of the alarm bells had never swung so violently, the warder’s horn had never made the air quiver with such resonant appeals for aid.

Nor did the metallic voices above call for help in vain, for while a roseate glow tinged the linden in front of her window and the houses on the opposite side of the street with the hues of dawn, the crowds thronging from the Frauenthor to St. Klarengasse grew denser and denser.

The convent was not visible from her chamber, but the acrid odor of the smoke and the loud voices which reached her ear from that direction proved that the fire was no trivial one.  While she was seeking out the spot from which Heinz must have looked up to her window, the Ortlieb menservants, with some of the Montfort retainers, came out of the house with pails and ladders.

A female figure glided into the dark street after them.  A black shawl concealed her head and the upper part of her figure, and she held a bundle in her hand.

It must be Katterle.

Where was she going at this hour?  As she was carrying the package, she could scarcely intend to help in putting out the fire.  Was she stealing away from fear of punishment?  Poor thing!  Even the maid was hurled into misfortune through her guilt.

It pierced her very heart.  But while she called to Katterle to stop her, something else, which engrossed her still more, diverted her attention—­the loud voice of Countess Cordula reached her from the street door.  With whom was she talking?  Did the girl, who ventured upon so many things which ill-beseemed a modest maiden, intend to join the men?  Eva forgot that she, too, would have hurried to the nuns had not her father prevented it.  The countess was already standing in the courtyard.

After Eva had given her a hasty glance she again looked for the maid, but Katterle had already vanished in the darkness.  This grieved her; she had neglected something which might have saved the girl, to whom she was warmly attached, from some imprudent act.  But while attracted by the strange appearance of the countess she had forgotten the other.

Cordula had probably just left her couch, for she wore only a plain dress tucked up very high, short boots, which she probably used in hunting, and a shawl crossed over her bosom; another was wound round her head in the fashion of the peasant women who brought their goods to market on cold winter days.  No farmer’s wife could be more simply clad, and yet—­Eva was forced to admit it—­there was something aristocratic in her firm bearing.