Just in front of the Ortlieb mansion the commander of the German knights rode to his side, and Eva saw how warmly he shook him by the hand, as if he desired to show the old man very cordially his deep sympathy in some sore trouble which had assailed him.

Ever since Wolff’s betrothal to Els had been announced the Vorchtels had ceased to be on terms of intimacy with the Ortliebs; but old Herr Berthold, though he himself had probably regarded young Eysvogel as his “Ursel’s” future husband, had always treated Eva kindly, and she was not mistaken—­tears were glittering on his cheeks in the torchlight.  The sight touched the young girl’s inmost heart.  How eagerly she desired to know what had befallen the Vorchtels, and to give the old man some token of sympathy!  What could have caused him so much sorrow?  Only a few hours before her father had returned from a gay entertainment at his house.  It could scarcely concern Herr Berthold’s wife, his daughter Ursula, or either of his two vigorous sons.  Perhaps death had only bereft him of some more distant, though beloved relative, yet surely she would have known that, for the Ortliebs were connected by marriage both with the old gentleman and his wife.

Tortured by a presentiment of evil, Eva gazed after him, and also watched for Heinz Schorlin among the people in the street.  Must not anxiety for her bring him hither, if he learned how near her house the fire was burning?

Whenever a helmet or knight’s baret appeared above the crowd she thought that he was coming.  Once she believed that she had certainly recognised him, for a tall young man of knightly bearing appeared, not mounted, but on foot, and stopped opposite to the Ortlieb house.  That must be he!  But when he looked up to her window, the reflection of the fire showed that the man who had made her heart beat so quickly was indeed a young and handsome knight, but by no means the person for whom she had mistaken him.  It was Boemund Altrosen, famed as victor in many a tournament, who when a boy had often been at the house of her uncle, Herr Pfinzing.  There was no mistaking his coal-black, waving locks.  It was said that the dark-blue sleeve of a woman’s robe which he wore on his helmet in the jousts belonged to the Countess von Montfort.  She was his lady, for whom he had won so many victories.

Heinz Schorlin had mentioned him at the ball as his friend, and told her that the gallant knight would vainly strive to win the reckless countess.  Perhaps he was now looking at the house so intently on Cordula’s account.  Or had Heinz, his friend, sent him to watch over her while he was possibly detained by the Emperor?

But, no; he had just gone nearer to the house to question a man in the von Montfort livery, and the reply now led him to move on towards the convent.

Were the tears which filled Eva’s eyes caused by the smoke that poured from the fire more and more densely into the street, or to disappointment and bitter anguish?