"I could imagine that vividly enough," Wolff eagerly interposed.
"I, too, have broken many a lance in the lists and shed blood enough."

"What a dunce I am!" cried Heinz in amazement, pressing his hand upon his
brow. "That's why your face was so familiar! By my saint! I am no
knight if I did not see you then, before the battle waxed hot. It was
close beside your Burgrave Frederick, who held aloft the imperial
banner."

"Probably," replied Wolff in a tone of assent. "He sometimes entrusted
the standard to me, when it grew too heavy for his powerful arm, because
I was the tallest and the strongest of our Nuremberg band. But,
unluckily, I could not render this service long. A scimitar gashed my
head. The larger part of the little scar is hidden under my hair."

"The little scar!" repeated Heinz gaily. "It was wide enough, at any
rate, for the greatest soul to slip through it. A scar on the head from
a wound received four years ago, and yet distinctly visible in the
moonlight!"

"It should serve as a warning," replied Wolff, glancing anxiously up the
street. "If the patrol, or any nocturnal reveller should catch sight of
us, it would be ill for the fair fame of the Ortlieb sisters, for
everybody knows that only one--Els's betrothed lover--has a right to
await a greeting here at so late an hour. So follow me into the shadow
of the linden, I entreat you; for yonder--surely you see it too--a figure
is gliding towards us."

Heinz Schorlin's laugh rang out like a bell as he whispered to the
Nuremberg patrician: "That figure is familiar to me, and neither we nor