“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.”

“Succumb!” Sir Hans von Obernitz, the Nuremberg magistrate, here interposed indignantly.  “A Groland, who, moreover, is blessed with a loyal, lovely wife, succumb to the sparkling eyes of a vagabond wanton!  The Pegnitz would flow up the castle cliff first.  I should think we might have less vulgar subjects to discuss.”

“The daring, skilful ropedancer certainly does not belong to the latter,” Doctor Peutinger eagerly retorted.  “Besides, who would not desire to know how the free, hot-blooded daughter of the highway settled the account with you, friend Lienhard?  Love disdained is said to be the mother of hatred, and from the days of Potiphar’s wife has often caused cruel vengeance.  Had this girl whom Sir Hans holds in such light esteem really possessed an evil nature, like others of her class—­”

“That she does not,” Lienhard Groland here warmly interrupted the Augsburg guest.

“Whatever Kuni may lack, and whatever errors she may have committed, she is, and will remain a rare creature, even among the few whose lofty spirit can not be bowed or broken by the deepest calamity.  When I met her here again at The Blue Pike, among the most corrupt vagabonds, ill and poor, perhaps already the victim of death, I thought it a fitting time to renew the gift which she had refused.  I would gladly do more for the poor girl, and my wife at home certainly would not be vexed; she, too, is fond of Kuni, and—­I repeat it—­this girl has a good, nay, the best nature.  If, instead of among vagabonds, she had been born in a respectable household—­”