he countess knew who had frustrated her intervention
in behalf of Els. It was Sir Seitz Siebenburg, "the Mustache," whose
officious homage, at first amusing, had long since become repulsive. Her
heart shrank from the thought that, merely from vain pleasure in having
a throng of admirers, she had given this scoundrel more than one glance
of encouragement. The riding whip fairly quivered in her right hand
as, after informing Ernst Ortlieb where Els had gone, she warned the
gentlemen that it was time to depart, and Seitz Siebenburg submissively,
yet as familiarly as if he had a right to her special favour, held out
his hand in farewell.

But Countess Cordula withdrew hers with visible dislike, saying in a
tone of chilling repulse: "Remember me to your wife, Sir Knight. Tell
her to take care that her twin sons resemble their father as little as
possible."

"Then you want to have two ardent admirers the less?" asked Siebenburg
gaily, supposing that the countess's remark was a jest.

But when she did not, as he expected, give these insulting words an
interpretation favourable to him, but merely shrugged her shoulders
scornfully, he added, glancing fiercely at the Swiss knight:

"True, you would doubtless be better pleased should the boys grow up
to resemble the lucky Sir Heinz Schorlin, for whose sake you proved
yourself the inventor of tales more marvellous, if not more credible,
than the most skilful travelling minstrel."

"Perhaps so," replied the countess with contemptuous brevity. "But I
should be satisfied if the twins--and this agrees with my first wish
should grow up honest men. If you should pay me the honour of a visit
during the next few days, Sir Seitz, I could not receive it."

With these words she turned away, paying no further heed to him, though
he called her name aloud, as if half frantic.

CHAPTER XI.

It was after midnight when the servants closed the heavy door of the
Ortlieb mansion. The late guests had left it, mounted their horses, and
ridden away together through the Frauenthor into the city.

The moon no longer lighted their way. A sultry wind had swept from
the southwest masses of grey clouds, which constantly grew denser and
darker. Heinz Schorlin did not notice it, but his follower, Biberli,
called his attention to the rising storm and entreated him to choose the
nearest road to the city. To remain outside the gate in such darkness
would be uncomfortable, nay, perhaps not without pe