while he stretched himself on the floor face downward, and pretended to
be asleep behind the women.

This suited Kuni. If Lienhard Groland passed her now he could not help
seeing her, and she had no greater desire than to meet his glance once
more before her life ended. Yet she dreaded this meeting with an
intensity plainly revealed by the passionate throbbing of her heart and
the panting of her weakened lungs. There was a rushing noise in her ears,
and her eyes grew dim. Yet she was obliged to keep them wide open--what
might not the next moment bring?

For the first time since her entrance she gazed around the large, long
apartment, which would have deserved the name of hall had it not been too
low.

The heated room, filled with buzzing flies, was crowded with travellers.
The wife and daughter of a feather-curler, who were on their way with the
husband and father to the Reichstag, where many an aristocratic gentleman
would need plumes for his own head and his wife's, had just dropped the
comb with which they were arranging each other's hair. The shoemaker and
his dame from Nuremberg paused in the sensible lecture they were
alternately addressing to their apprentices. The Frankfort messenger put
down the needle with which he was mending the badgerskin in his knapsack.
The travelling musicians who, to save a few pennies, had begun to eat
bread, cheese, and radishes, instead of the warm meals provided for the
others, let their knives drop and set down the wine-jugs. The traders,
who were hotly arguing over Italian politics and the future war with
Turkey, were silent. The four monks, who had leaned their heads against
the cornice of the wide, closed fireplace and, in spite of the flies
which buzzed around them, had fallen asleep, awoke. The vender of