a
girl of her own age and an inmate of her own home, also gave her only a
passing word. But this was agreeable to her--she disliked Cordula's free
manners.

Many who were friends of Els had gathered around Ursula Vorchtel, the
daughter of the richest man in the city, and she intentionally avoided
the Ortliebs because, before Wolff Eysvogel sued for Els's hand, he and
Ursula had been intended for each other.

Eva was just secretly vowing that this first ball should also be the
last, when the imperial magistrate, Herr Berthold Pfinzing, her
godfather, came to present her to the Emperor, who had requested to see
the little daughter of the Herr Ernst Ortlieb whose son had fallen in
battle for him. His "little saint," Herr Pfinzing added, looked no less
lovely amid the gay music of the Nuremberg pipers than kneeling in prayer
amid the notes of the organ.

Every tinge of colour had faded from Eva's cheeks, and though a few hours
before she had asked her sister what the Emperor's greatness signified in
the presence of God that she should be forced, for his sake, to be
faithless to the holiest things, now fear of the majesty of the powerful
sovereign made her breath come quicker.

How, clinging to her godfather's hand, she reached the Emperor Rudolph's
throne she could never describe, for what happened afterwards resembled a
confused dream of mingled bliss and pain, from which she was first
awakened by her father's warning that the time of departure had come.

When she raised her downcast eyes the monarch was standing before the
throne placed for him. She had been compelled to bend her head backward
in order to see his face, for his figure, seven feet in height, towered
like a statue of Roland above all who surrounded him. But when, after the
Austrian duchess, his daughter-in-law, who was scarcely beyond childhood,
and the Burgrave von Zollern, his sister, had graciously greeted her, and
Eva with modest thanks had also bowed low before the Emperor Rudolph, a
smile, spite of her timidity, flitted over her lips, for as she bent the
knee her head barely reached above his belt. The Burgravine, a vivacious
matron, must have noticed it, for she beckoned to her, and with a few
kind words mentioned the name of the young knight who stood behind her,
between her own seat and that of the young Duchess Agnes of Austria, and
recommended him as an excellent dancer. Heinz Schorlin, the master of the
true and steadfast Biberli, had bowed