I crossed the threshold in trembling, and as soon as she beheld me she cried out, with burning cheeks, which glowed not so, for sure, from the blaze in the chimney:  “Margery, Margery!  And so happy as she looks!  You have seen your uncle, child, and can tell me wherefor he is gone forth?”

I told her truly that I had not; and then bid her rejoice with me, inasmuch as that all the price of Herdegen’s ransom had been paid and, best of all, that we had good tidings of our brothers’ well-being.

Then she was fain to know when and through whom, and made enquiry in such wise as though she had some strong suspicion; and I answered her as calmly as I might, that a pilgrim from the East had come to us yestereve, a right loyal and worthy gentleman, whom, indeed, I hoped to bring to her knowledge.

But I might say no more by reason that her eyes on a sudden flashed up brightly, and she vehemently broke in: 

“Chaplain, Chaplain!  Now what do you say?  When the old man rode forth so early this morning, and bid me farewell in so strange a wise, then—­hear me, Margery—­he likewise spoke to me of a messenger from the East who rode into the city yestereve—­just as you say.  But it was not of Herdegen that he brought tidings, but of him—­of him—­of Gotz that he had sure knowledge.  And when the old man told me so much as that, for certain somewhat lay behind it.—­And now, Margery—­when I see you—­when I consider. . . .”  Here, as I cast a meaning glance at the Chaplain, on a sudden she shrieked with such a yell as pierced my bones and marrow; and or ever I saw her, her weak, lean hand had clutched my wrist, and she cried in a hoarse voice: 

“Then you, you have hid somewhat from me!  The look wherewith you warned the Chaplain, oh!  I marked it well.—­And you hesitate—­and now—­you—­Margery—­Margery!  By Christ’s wounds I ask you, Margery.  What is it?—­What of Gotz?  Has he . . . out with it—­out with the truth. . . .  Has he written?—­No.—­You shake your head. . . .  Merciful Virgin!  He—­he—­Gotz is on his way Home wards.”  And she clapped her hands over her face.  I fell on my knees by her side, dragged first her left hand and then her right hand away from her eyes, covered them with kisses, and whispered to her:  “Yes, yes, Aunt, Mother, sweet, dear little mother!  Only wait—­You shall hear all.  Gotz is weary of wandering; he had not forgotten his father and mother, nor me, his little Red-riding-hood—­I know it, I am sure of it.  Patience! only a little patience and he will be here—­in Germany, in Franconia, in Nuremberg, in the forest, in the house, in this hall, here, here where I am kneeling, at your feet, in your arms!”

Then the deeply-moved dame, who had listened to me breathless, flung her hands high in the air as if she were seeking somewhat, and it was as though her eyes turned inside out; and I was seized with sudden terror, inasmuch as I deemed that she had drunk death out of the overfull cup of joy that my hand had put to her lips.  Howbeit, it was but a brief swoon which had come upon her, and as soon as she had come to herself again and I had told her the whole truth, little by little and with due caution, even that Gotz and I had found each other and both fervently and earnestly longed for her motherly blessing, she gave it me in rich abundance.