girlish figure in the first budding
charm of youth. He thought he heard her sing, and old, unforgotten notes
of songs swiftly crowded out his own musical creations.

Every tone from the fresh red lips of the lovely fair-haired girl
awakened a new memory. The past lived again, and, without his volition,
transformed the image of the child of whom he had thought whenever he
recalled his youthful days in Ratisbon into that of a lovely bride, with
the myrtle wreath on her waving hair, while beside her he beheld himself
with the wedding bouquet on his slashed velvet holiday doublet.

He involuntarily seized the saddlebag which contained the handsomest
gift he had bought in Brussels for the person who had drawn him back to
Ratisbon with a stronger power of attraction than anything else. If all
went well, that very day, perhaps, he might have the right to call her
his own.

These visions of the future aroused so joyous a feeling in his young
soul that Massi, the violinist, read in his by no means mobile features
what was passing in his mind. His cheery "Well, Sir Knight!" awakened
his ever-courteous colleague and travelling companion from his dream,
and, when the latter started and turned toward him, Alassi gaily
continued: "To see his home and his family again does, indeed, make any
man glad! The sight of yonder shining steeples and roofs seems to make
your heart laugh, Sir Wolf, and, by Our Lady, you have good reason
to bestow one or more candles upon her, for, besides other delightful
things, a goodly heritage is awaiting you in Ratisbon."

Here he paused, for the sunny radiance vanished simultaneously from
the sky and from his companion's face. The violinist, as if in apology,
added: "Some trouble always precedes an inheritance, and who knows
whether, in your case also, rumour did not follow the evil custom of
lying or making a mountain out of a molehill?"

Wolf Hartschwert slightly shrugged his shoulders and calmly answered:

"It is all true about the heritage, Massi, and also the trouble, but
it is unpleasant to hear you, too, call me 'Sir.' Let it drop for the
future, if we are to be intimate. To others I shall, of course, be the
knight or cavalier. You know what the title procures for a man, though
your saying--

'Knightly Knightly rank with lack of land
More care than joy hath at command,'

is but too true. As for the heritage, an old friend has really named me
in his will, but you must not exp