gentlemen and their attendants outside attracted many guests to the doors
and windows of the long, whitewashed building.

The strollers, however, kept the place at theirs without difficulty; no
one desired to come near them.

The girl with the bandaged foot had now also turned her face toward the
street. As her gaze rested on the youngest of the Nuremberg dignitaries,
her pale cheeks flushed, and, as if unconsciously, the exclamation: "It
is he!" fell from her lips.

"Who?" asked red-haired Gitta, and was quickly answered in a low tone

"I mean Lienhard, Herr Groland."

"The young one," stuttered Cyriax.

Then, raising the shawl, he continued inquisitively:

"Do you know him? For good or for evil?"

The girl, whose face, spite of its sunken cheeks and the dark rings under
the deep-set blue eyes, still bore distinct traces of former beauty,
started and answered sharply, though not very loudly, for speech was
difficult:

"Good is what you call evil, and evil is what you call good. My
acquaintance with Lienhard, Herr Groland, is my own affair, and, you may
be sure, will remain mine." She glanced contemptuously away from the
others out of doors, but Cyriax, spite of his mutilated tongue, retorted