systematically to make a clear ring in his path forward. Several of the
horsemen essayed a cut at his arm with their long double-handed swords,
but the horses could not be brought a second time to the edge of the
magic circle; and the blood of these warriors being thoroughly up, they
now came at him on foot. In their rage they would have made short work
with the three, in spite of the magistracy of Cologne, had they not been
arrested by cries of 'Werner! Werner!'

At the South-west end of the square, looking Rhinewards, rode the
marauder Baron, in full armour, helm and hauberk, with a single retainer
in his rear. He had apparently caught sight of the brawl, and, either
because he distinguished his own men, or was seeking his natural element,
hastened up for his share in it, which was usually that of the king of
beasts. His first call was for Schwartz Thier. The men made way, and he
beheld his man in no condition to make military responses. He shouted
for Henker Rothhals, and again the men opened their ranks mutely,
exhibiting the two stretched out in diverse directions, with their feet
slanting to a common point. The Baron glared; then caught off his mailed
glove, and thrust it between his teeth. A rasping gurgle of oaths was
all they heard, and presently surged up,

'Who was it?'

Margarita's eyes were shut. She opened them fascinated with horror.
There was an unearthly awful and comic mixture of sounds in Werner's
querulous fury, that was like the noise of a complaining bear, rolling up
from hollow-chested menace to yawning lament. Never in her life had
Margarita such a shock of fear. The half gasp of a laugh broke on her
trembling lips. She stared at Werner, and was falling; but Farina's arm
clung instantly round her waist. The stranger caught up her laugh, loud