Now, even fragile little Dr. Eberbach, and the students and Bacchantes who had stood around him like disciples, intently listening to his words, bowed respectfully.  The ungodly, insolent fellows who surrounded the Dominican Jacobus, the vender of indulgences, had turned from him, while he exhorted them, as if he were an importunate beggar.  What did the merchants, artisans, and musicians know about the godless Greek and Latin writings which brought the names of Pirckheimer and Peutinger before the people, yet how reverently many of these folk now bowed before them.  Only the soldiers with swords at their sides held their heads erect.  They proved that they were right in calling themselves “pious lansquenets.”  The broad-shouldered knight, with the plumed hat and suit of mail, who walked beside them, was Sir Hans von Obernitz, the Schultheiss of Nuremberg.  He was said to be a descendant of the ancient Brandenstein race, and yet—­was the world topsy-turvy?—­he, too, was listening to every word uttered by Wilibald Pirckheimer and Dr. Peutinger as if it were a revelation.  The gray-haired leech and antiquary, Hartmann Schedel, whom Herr Wilibald,—­spite of the gout which sometimes forced a slight grimace to distort his smooth-shaven, clever, almost over-plump face,—­led by the arm like a careful son, resembled, with his long, silver locks, a patriarch or an apostle.

The young envoy of the Council, Herr Lienhard Groland, lingered behind the others and seemed to be taking a survey of the room.

What bright, keen eyes he had; how delicately cut was the oval face with the strong, very slightly hooked nose; how thick were the waving brown locks that fell upon the slender neck; how well the pointed beard suited his chin; with what austere majesty his head rose above the broad, plaited, snow-white ruff, which he must have just donned!

Now his eyes rested upon the vagrants, and Dietel perceived something which threw him completely off his balance; for the first time he changed the position of his napkin, jerking it from its place under his left arm to tuck it beneath the right one.  He had known Kuni a long time.  In her prosperous days, when she was the ornament of Loni’s band and had attracted men as a ripe pear draws wasps, she had often been at the tavern, and both he and the landlord of The Pike had greeted her cordially, for whoever sought her favour was obliged to order the best and dearest of everything, not only for her and himself, but for a whole tableful of hungry guests.  When she had met him just now he would never have recognised her had she not been in Gundel’s company.  True, the sight of her in this plight was not unexpected, yet it pierced him to the heart, for Kuni had been a remarkable girl, and yet was now in far greater penury than many of much less worth whom he had watched stumbling along the downward path before her.  When he saw Lienhard Groland’s glance rest upon her, he noticed also how strangely her emaciated face changed colour.  Though it had just been as white as the napkin under his arm, it now flushed as red as the balsam blossoms in the window, and then paled again.  She had formerly gazed around her boldly enough, but now she lowered her eyes to the floor as modestly as any demure maiden on her way to church.