“As mine did for the peerless child,” replied the young Councillor with eager warmth.  “While Juliane, who sickened at the sight of the girl dancing on the edge of the grave, was pointing out to me some pages in the manuscript of Lucian, which I was to take from you to Herr Wilibald yonder, the unfortunate performer met with the terrible accident.  We thought that she was killed, but, as if by a miracle, she lived.  Ropedancing, of course, was over forever, as she had lost a foot.  This, we supposed, would tend to her welfare and induce her to lead a regular, decorous life; but we were mistaken.  In spite of her lameness, Kuni’s restless nature drove her back to the highroad.  Yet she would have been at liberty to remain in the convent as a lay sister without taking the vows.”

“My wife, too, had opened our house to her for Juliane’s sake,” added Doctor Peutinger.  “The sick child could not get the fall which had frightened her so terribly out of her head.  Her compassionate heart was constantly occupied with the poor girl, and when she urged her mother to provide for her, she willingly gratified her wish and often inquired about the sufferer’s health.  How Juliane rejoiced when she heard that the bold and skilful dancer’s life would be saved!  But when, through the abbess, my wife offered her a situation in our home, the vagabond disdained what the mother and daughter had planned for her, Heaven knows how kindly.”

“She treated the gift which we—­my wife and I—­left in the convent for her in the same way,” added Lienhard.  “Why did she refuse the aid I offered no less willingly?  Probably because she was too proud to accept alms from a man from whom her ardent heart vainly desired something better.”

Here Lienhard Groland hesitated, and it sounded like a confession as he eagerly continued: 

“And, gentleman, she often seemed to me well worthy of a man’s desire.  Why should I deny it?  Within and without the walls of Troy—­we have just heard it—­sin is committed, and had not the image of another woman stood between us, as the Alps rise between Germany and Italy-perhaps—­But of what avail are conjectures?  Will you believe that there were hours when I felt as though I ought to make some atonement to the poor girl?”

“In your place I should have done it long ago, for the benefit of both,” protested little Doctor Eberbach merrily.  “The commands of conscience should be obeyed, even when, by way of exception, it requires something pleasant.  But how grave you look, sir.  No offence!  You are one of the rare specimens of featherless birds endowed with reason, who unite to the austerity of Cato the amiability of Titus.”

“All due honour to Cato,” added Wilibald Pirckheimer with a slight bend of his stately head; “but in my young days we had a better understanding of the art of reconciling stern duty with indulgent compassion, when dealing with a beautiful Calypso whom our sternness threatened to wound.  But everything in the good old days was not better than at the present time, and that you, whom I honour as the most faithful of husbands, may not misunderstand me, Lienhard:  To bend and to succumb are two different things.”