He had left the examination of the students, citizens’ sons, and peasants to his lieutenant; but there were also three noblemen, from whom large ransoms could be obtained.  The two older ones had granted what he asked and been led away; the third, a tall man in knightly armor, was left last.

Ulrich had personally encountered the latter.  The prisoner, mounted upon a tall steed, had pressed him very closely; nay, the Eletto’s victory was not decided, until a musket-shot had stretched the other’s horse on the ground.

The knight now carried his arm in a sling.  In the centre of his coat of mail and on the shoulder-pieces of his armor, the ensigns armorial of a noble family were embossed.

“You were dragged out from under your horse,” said the Eletto to the knight.  “You wield an excellent blade.”

He had spoken in Spanish, but the other shrugged his shoulders, and answered in the German language “I don’t understand Spanish.”

“Are you a German?” Ulrich now asked in his native tongue.  “How do you happen to be among the Netherland rebels?”

The nobleman looked at the Eletto in surprise.  But the latter, giving him no time for reflection, continued “I understand German; your answer?”

“I had business in Antwerp?”

“What business?”

“That is my affair.”

“Very well.  Then we will drop courtesy and adopt a different tone.”

“Nay, I am the vanquished party, and will answer you.”

“Well then?”

“I had stuffs to buy.”

“Are you a merchant?”

The knight shook his head and answered, smiling:  “We have rebuilt our castle since the fire.”

“And now you need hangings and artistic stuff.  Did you expect to capture them from us?”

“Scarcely, sir.”

“Then what brought you among our enemies?”

“Baron Floyon belongs to my mother’s family.  He marched against you, and as I approved his cause....”

“And pillage pleases you, you felt disposed to break a lance.”

“Quite right.”

“And you have done your cause no harm.  Where do you live?”

“Surely you know:  in Germany.”

“Germany is a very large country.”

“In the Black Forest in Swabia.”

“And your name?”

The prisoner made no reply; but Ulrich fixed his eyes upon the coat of arms on the knight’s armor, looked at him more steadily, and a strange smile hovered around his lips as he approached him, saying in an altered tone:  “You think the Navarrete will demand from Count von Frohlinger a ransom as large as his fields and forests?”

“You know me?”

“Perhaps so, Count Lips.”

“By Heavens!”

“Ah, ha, you went from the monastery to the field.”

“From the monastery?  How do you know that, sir?”

“We are old acquaintances, Count Lips.  Look me in the eyes.”