Then I asked him whether he had in truth rather have found her in woe and grief, and would fain have had her young days saddened for love of him?  He broke in suddenly, declaring that he knew full well that he had no right to hinder her in any matter, but that one thing he could not bear, and that was that she, whom he had revered as a saint, should now demean herself no more nobly nor otherwise than any other maid might.  On this I asked him wherefor he had denied his saint; nay, for the sake—­as it would seem—­of a maid who was, for sure, the worldliest of us all.  And, to end, I boldly enquired of him how matters stood betwixt him and Ursula; but all the answer I got was that first he must know whether Ann were in earnest with the Junker.  On this I said in mockery that he would do well to seek out the truth of that matter to the very bottom; and running up the steps by which we were standing, I kissed my hand to him from the first turning and wished him a good night’s rest.

Up in our chamber I found Ann greatly disturbed.

She, who was commonly so calm, was walking up and down the narrow space without pause or ceasing; and seeing how sorely her fears and her conscience were distressing her, pity compelled me to forego my intent of not giving her any hopes; I revealed to her that I had discovered that my Herdegen’s heart was yet hers in spite of Ursula.

This comforted her somewhat; but yet could it not restore her peace of mind.  Meseemed that the ruthless work she had done that day had but now come home to her; she could not refrain herself from tears when she confessed that Herdegen had privily besought her to grant him brief speech with her, and that she had brought herself to refuse him.

All this was told in a whisper; only a thin wall of wood parted Ursula’s chamber from ours.  As yet there was no hope of sleep, inasmuch as that the noise made, by the gentlemen at their carouse came up loud and clear through the open window and, the later it grew, the louder waxed Herdegen’s voice and the Junker’s, above all others.  And I knew what hour the clocks must have told when my brother shouted louder than ever the old chorus: 

“Bibit heres, bibit herus
Bibit miles, bibit clerus
Bibit ille, bibit illa
Bibit servus cum ancilla. 
Bibit soror, bibit frater
Bibit anus, bibit mater
Bibit ista, bibit ille: 
Bibunt centem, bibunt milee.”

[The heir drinks, the owner drinks,
The soldier and the clerk,
He drinks, she drinks,
The servant and the wench. 
The sister drinks and eke the brother,
The grand dam and the gaffer,
This one drinks, that one drinks,
A hundred drink—­a thousand!]

Nor was this the end.  The Latin tongue of this song may peradventure have roused Junker Henning to make a display of learning on his part, and in a voice which had won no mellowness from the stout Brandenburg ale —­which is yclept “Death and murder”—­or from the fiery Hippocras he had been drinking he carolled forth the wanton verse: