“You shall know all soon, dear Ludwig,” said the Margrave, with a heart-rending look.  “You marked Gottfried, who left the room anon?”

“I did.”

“You look incredulous concerning his worth; but I tell thee, Ludwig, that yonder Gottfried is a good fellow, and my fast friend.  Why should he not be!  He is my near relation, heir to my property:  should I” (here the Margrave’s countenance assumed its former expression of excruciating agony),—­“Should I have no son.”

“But I never saw the boy in better health,” replied Sir Ludwig.

“Nevertheless,—­ha! ha!—­it may chance that I shall soon have no son.”

The Margrave had crushed many a cup of wine during dinner, and Sir Ludwig thought naturally that his gallant friend had drunken rather deeply.  He proceeded in this respect to imitate him; for the stern soldier of those days neither shrunk before the Paynim nor the punch-bowl:  and many a rousing night had our crusader enjoyed in Syria with lion-hearted Richard; with his coadjutor, Godfrey of Bouillon; nay, with the dauntless Saladin himself.

“You knew Gottfried in Palestine?” asked the Margrave.

“I did.”

“Why did ye not greet him then, as ancient comrades should, with the warm grasp of friendship?  It is not because Sir Gottfried is poor?  You know well that he is of race as noble as thine own, my early friend!”

“I care not for his race nor for his poverty,” replied the blunt crusader.  “What says the Minnesinger?  ’Marry, that the rank is but the stamp of the guinea; the man is the gold.’  And I tell thee, Karl of Godesberg, that yonder Gottfried is base metal.”

“By Saint Buffo, thou beliest him, dear Ludwig.”

“By Saint Bugo, dear Karl, I say sooth.  The fellow was known i’ the camp of the crusaders—­disreputably known.  Ere he joined us in Palestine, he had sojourned in Constantinople, and learned the arts of the Greek.  He is a cogger of dice, I tell thee—­a chanter of horseflesh.  He won five thousand marks from bluff Richard of England the night before the storming of Ascalon, and I caught him with false trumps in his pocket.  He warranted a bay mare to Conrad of Mont Serrat, and the rogue had fired her.”

“Ha! mean ye that Sir Gottfried is a leg?” cried Sir Karl, knitting his brows.  “Now, by my blessed patron, Saint Buffo of Bonn, had any other but Ludwig of Hombourg so said, I would have cloven him from skull to chine.”

“By Saint Bugo of Katzenellenbogen, I will prove my words on Sir Gottfried’s body—­not on thine, old brother-in-arms.  And to do the knave justice, he is a good lance.  Holy Bugo! but he did good service at Acre!  But his character was such that, spite of his bravery, he was dismissed the army; nor even allowed to sell his captain’s commission.”

“I have heard of it,” said the Margrave; “Gottfried hath told me of it.  ’Twas about some silly quarrel over the wine-cup—­a mere silly jape, believe me.  Hugo de Brodenel would have no black bottle on the board.  Gottfried was wroth, and to say sooth, flung the black bottle at the county’s head.  Hence his dismission and abrupt return.  But you know not,” continued the Margrave, with a heavy sigh, “of what use that worthy Gottfried has been to me.  He has uncloaked a traitor to me.”