im that Ernst Ortlieb thought
his house was on fire, "the Mustache," in reply to Herr Casper's enquiry
how his son's betrothed bride happened to be there, answered scornfully:
"Els? She did not hasten hither, like the old man, to put the fire
out, but because one flame was not enough for her. Wolff must know it
to-morrow. By day the slender little flame of honourable betrothed love
flickers for him; by night it blazes more brightly for yonder Swiss
scoundrel. And the young lady chooses for the scene of this toying with
fire the easily ignited warehouse of her own father!"

"I will secure mine against such risks," Casper Eysvogel answered; then,
casting a contemptuous glance at Els and a wrathful one at the Swiss
knight, he added with angry resolution: "It is not yet too late. So long
as I am myself no one shall bring peril and disgrace upon my house and
my son."

Then Herr Ernst had suddenly become aware of the suspicion with which
his beautiful, brave, self-sacrificing child was regarded. Pale as
death, he struggled for composure, and when his eyes met the imploring
gaze of the basely defamed girl, he said to himself that he must
maintain his self-control in order not to afford the frivolous revellers
who surrounded him an entertaining spectacle.

Wolff was dear to him, but before he would have led his Els to the
house where the miserable "Mustache" lived, and whose head was the
coldhearted, gloomy man whose words had just struck him like a poisoned
arrow, he, whom the Lord had bereft of his beloved, gallant son, would
have been ready to deprive himself of his daughters also and take both
to the convent. Eva longed to go, and Els might find there a new and
beautiful happiness, like his sister, the Abbess Kunigunde. In the
Eysvogel house, never!

During these hasty reflections Els extended her hand toward him, and
the shining gold circlet which her lover had placed on her ring finger
glittered in the torchlight. A thought darted through his brain with
the speed of lightning, and without hesitation he drew the ring from
the hand of his astonished daughter, whispering curtly, yet tenderly, in
reply to her anxious cry, "What are you doing?"

"Trust me, child."

Then hastily approaching Casper Eysvogel, he beckoned to him to move a
little aside from the group.

The other followed, believing that Herr Ernst would now promise the sum
requested, yet firmly resolved, much as he needed it, to refuse.

Ernst Ortlieb, ho