man, I may boldly declare that it is dead and buried.  But mark me,” and she clapped her hand to her heaving bosom, “mark me, somewhat else hath made entrance here, with drums and trumpets and high jubilee:  Hate!—­I hate you, Herdegen, as I hate death, pestilence, and hell; and I hate you twice as much since your skill with the rapier brought the combat with the Brandenburger, into which I entrapped you, to so perverse an end.”

Hereupon Cousin Maud, wild with rage herself, gripped her again by the arm to draw her forth from the chamber, but Ursula went on in a milder tone: 

“Only a few moments longer, I pray you; for by the Blessed Virgin and all the Saints I swear that I would not have come hither at so late an hour but to deliver my message to Herdegen.”

My cousin released her, and she drew forth a written paper and again enquired for Ann; howbeit my brother said that he did not purpose to call her in, and desired that she would give him the paper, if indeed it concerned him.  To this she answered that he would presently know that much, inasmuch as it was her intent to read it to the company, only she would fain have had his fair mistress among the hearers.  Howbeit she had a good loud voice, she thanked the Saints, and the doors in the Schoppers’ house were scarce thicker than in other folks’ houses.  The letter in her hand had been given to her to deliver to Herdegen by the newlymade vicar of his Highness the Elector and Archbishop of Treves, who was lodged with the Tetzels.  He had not been able to find him, no more than the Emperor’s men-at-arms; so he had bidden her take good heed that she gave it into Junker Schopper’s own hand.  But verily she would do yet more, and spare him the pains of reading it.

Hereupon my brother, in great ire, bid her no longer keep that which was not her own; yet she refused, and whereas Herdegen seized her hand to wrench away the paper she shrieked out to the Bohemian:  “Give him his due, for a knave who offends maidens; that outcast for whom I scorned and misprized you!  Help, help, if you are no churl!”

My brother nevertheless had already snatched the letter from her, and the Bohemian, who had laid his hand on his dagger, thought better of it as his eye met my look of warning.

It was a fearful moment of terror, and Ursula, whose hair had fallen loose, while her flashing blue eyes, full of hate, shot lightnings on one and another, stood clinging to the heavy dresser whereon our silver and glass vessels were displayed, and cried out as loudly as she could shout:  “The letter is from his lady-love in Padua, the Marchesa Bianca Zorzi.  That cunning swordsman’s blade made her a widow, and now she bids him return to her embrace.  The fond and ardent lady is in Venice, and her intent is to revel there in love and pleasure with her husband’s murderer.  And he—­though he may have sworn a thousand vows to the scrivener’s hussy—­he will do the Italian Circe’s bidding, and if he