She opened her eyes, shuddered, and said:  ‘I was not afraid!  Am I safe?’

‘Safe while I have life, and this good friend.’

‘Where is my father?’

‘I have not seen him.’

‘And you—­who are you?  Do I owe this to you?’

‘Oh! no! no!  Me you owe nothing.’

Margarita gazed hurriedly round, and at her feet there lay the Thier with his steel-cap shining in dints, and three rivulets of blood coursing down his mottled forehead.  She looked again at the youth, and a blush of recognition gave life to her cheeks.

’I did not know you.  Pardon me.  Farina! what thanks can reward such courage!  Tell me! shall we go?’

’The youth eyed her an instant, but recovering himself, took a rapid survey, and called to the stranger to follow and help give the young maiden safe conduct home.

’Just then Henker Rothhals bellowed, ‘Time’s up!’ He was answered by a chorus of agreement from the troop.  They had hitherto patiently acted their parts as spectators, immovable on their horses.  The assault on the Thier was all in the play, and a visible interference of fortune in favour of Henker Rothhals.  Now general commotion shuttled them, and the stranger’s keen hazel eyes read their intentions rightly when he lifted his redoubtable staff in preparation for another mighty swoop, this time defensive.  Rothhals, and half a dozen others, with a war-cry of curses, spurred their steeds at once to ride him down.  They had not reckoned the length and good-will of their antagonist’s weapon.  Scarce were they in motion, when round it whizzed, grazing the nostrils of their horses with a precision that argued practice in the feat, and unhorsing two, Rothhals among the number.  He dropped heavily on his head, and showed signs of being as incapable of combat as the Thier.  A cheer burst from the crowd, but fell short.

The foremost of their number was struck flat to the earth by a fellow of the troop.

Calling on St. George, his patron saint, the stranger began systematically to make a clear ring in his path forward.  Several of the horsemen essayed a cut at his arm with their long double-handed swords, but the horses could not be brought a second time to the edge of the magic circle; and the blood of these warriors being thoroughly up, they now came at him on foot.  In their rage they would have made short work with the three, in spite of the magistracy of Cologne, had they not been arrested by cries of ‘Werner!  Werner!’

At the South-west end of the square, looking Rhinewards, rode the marauder Baron, in full armour, helm and hauberk, with a single retainer in his rear.  He had apparently caught sight of the brawl, and, either because he distinguished his own men, or was seeking his natural element, hastened up for his share in it, which was usually that of the king of beasts.  His first call was for Schwartz Thier.  The men made way, and he beheld his man in no condition to make military responses.  He shouted for Henker Rothhals, and again the men opened their ranks mutely, exhibiting the two stretched out in diverse directions, with their feet slanting to a common point.  The Baron glared; then caught off his mailed glove, and thrust it between his teeth.  A rasping gurgle of oaths was all they heard, and presently surged up,