“No, Ulrich, no.  I have said everything to your father that can be urged in your defence, but he is so devoured with rage. . . .”

“Santiago!” exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, “I need no advocate!  If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, so much the better.  I’ll fill up the gaps myself.  I have been wherever the fight raged hottest!  ’Sdeath! that is my pride!  I am no longer a boy and have fought my way through life without father or mother.  What I am, I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man.  He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with feather balls!”

“Ulrich, Ulrich!  He is an old man, and your father!”

“I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son.”

One of the count’s servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith’s house.

Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothing was to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, except the large door, and a window on each side.  Behind the closed one at the right were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and some artistically-wrought iron articles.  The left-hand one was partly open, granting entrance to the autumn sunshine.  Ulrich dismissed the servant, took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to the hammer-strokes, that echoed from within.

The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood and cooled his hot blood.  Count Philipp was right.  His father was an old man, and entitled to demand respect from his son.  He must endure from him what he would tolerate from no one else.  Nay, he again felt that it was a great happiness to be near the beloved one, from whom he had so long been parted; whatever separated him from his old father, must surely vanish into nothing, as soon as they looked into each other’s eyes.

What a master in his trade, his father still was!  No one else would have found it so easy to forge the steel coat of mail with the Medusa head in the centre.  He was not working alone here as he did at Richtberg; for Ulrich heard more than one hammer striking iron in the workshop.

Before touching the knocker, he looked into the open window.

A woman’s tall figure was standing at the desk.  Her back was turned, and he saw only the round outline of the head, the long black braids, the plain dress, bordered with velvet, and the lace in the neck.  An elderly man in the costume of a merchant was just holding out his hand in farewell, and he heard him say:  “You’ve bought too cheap again, far too cheap, Jungfer Ruth.”

“Just a fair price,” she answered quietly.  “You will have a good profit, and we can afford to pay it.  I shall expect the iron day after to-morrow.”

“It will be delivered before noon.  Master Adam has a treasure in you, dear Jungfer.  If my son were alive, I know where he would seek a wife.  Wilhelm Ykens has told me of his troubles; he is a skilful goldsmith.  Why do you give the poor fellow no hope?  Consider!  You are past twenty, and every year it grows harder to say yes to a lover.”