“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.”

The other gazed keenly at the Eletto, shook his head, and said:  “You have not seemed a total stranger to me from the first; but I never was in Spain.”

“But I have been in Swabia, and at that time you did me a kindness.  Would your ransom be large enough to cover the cost of a broken church window?”

The count opened his eyes in amazement and a bright smile flashed over his face as, clapping his hands, he exclaimed with sincere delight: 

“You, you—­you are Ulrich!  I’ll be damned, if I’m mistaken!  But who the devil would discover a child of the Black Forest in the Spanish Eletto?”

“That I am one, must remain a secret between us for the present,” exclaimed Ulrich, extending his hand to the count.  “Keep silence, and you will be free—­the window will cover the ransom!”

“Holy Virgin!  If all the windows in the monastery were as dear, the monks might grow fat!” cried the count.  “A Swabian heart remains half Swabian, even when it beats under a Spanish doublet.  Its luck, Turk’s luck, that I followed Floyon;—­and your old father, Adam?  And Ruth—­what a pleasure!”

“You ought to know . . . my father is dead, died long, long ago!” said Ulrich, lowering his eyes.

“Dead!” exclaimed the other.  “And long ago?  I saw him at the anvil three weeks since.”

“My father?  At the anvil?  And Ruth? . . .” stammered Ulrich, gazing at the other with a pallid, questioning face.

“They are alive, certainly they are alive!  I met him again in Antwerp.  No one else can make you such armor.  The devil is in it, if you hav’nt heard of the Swabian armorer.”

“The Swabian—­the Swabian—­is he my father?”

“Your own father.  How long ago is it?  Thirteen years, for I was then sixteen.  That was the last time I saw him, and yet I recognized him at the first glance.  True, I shall never forget the hour, when the dumb woman drew the arrow from the Jew’s breast.  The scene I witnessed that day in the forest still rises before my eyes, as if it were happening now.”