And if Wolff, in his biding-place in the citadel, should learn what was said of his Els, to whom yesterday old and young raised their hats in glad yet respectful greeting, would he not believe those who appealed to his own father?

Yet ere she had fully realised this fear, she told herself that it was her duty and her right to thrust it aside.  Wolff would not be Wolff if even for a moment he believed such a thing possible.  They ought not, could not, doubt each other.  Though all Nuremberg should listen to the base calumny and turn its back upon her, she was sure of her Wolff.  Ay, he would cherish her with twofold tenderness when he learned by whom this terrible suffering had been inflicted upon her.

Drawing a long breath, she again fixed her eyes upon her mother’s portrait.  Had she now rushed out to tell the old man who had so cruelly injured her—­oh, it would have lightened her heart!—­the wrong he had done and what she thought of him, her mother would certainly have stopped her, saying:  “Remember that he is your betrothed husband’s father.”  She would not forget it; she could not even hate the ruined man.

Any effort to change her father’s mood now—­she saw it plainly—­would be futile.  Later, when his just anger had cooled, perhaps he might be persuaded to aid the endangered house.

Herr Ernst gazed after her sorrowfully as, with a gesture of farewell, she silently left the room to tell her lover’s father that he had come in vain.

The old merchant was waiting in the entry, where the wails of the servants and the women in the neighbourhood who, according to custom, were beating their brows and breasts and rending their garments, could be heard distinctly.

Deadly pale, as if ready to sink, he tottered towards the door.

When Els saw him hesitate at the top of the few steps leading to the entry, she gave him her arm to support him down.  As he cautiously put one foot after the other on the stairs, she wondered how it was possible that this man, whose tall figure and handsome face were cast in so noble a mould, could believe her to be so base; and at the same moment she remembered the words which old Berthold Vorchtel had uttered in her presence to his son Ulrich:  “If anything obscure comes between you and a friend, obtain a clear understanding and peace by truth.”

Had the young man who had irritated his misjudged friend into crossing swords with him followed this counsel, perhaps he would have been alive now.  She would take it herself, and frankly ask Wolff’s father what justified him in accusing her of so base a deed.

The lamps were already lighted in the hall, and the rays from the central one fell upon Herr Casper’s colourless face, which wore an expression of despair.  But just as her lips parted to ask the question the odour of musk reached her from the death-chamber, whose door Eva had opened.  Her mother’s gentle face, still in death, rose before her memory, and she was forced to exert the utmost self-control not to weep aloud.  Without further reflection she imposed silence upon herself and—­yesterday she would not have ventured to do it—­threw her arm around Herr Casper’s shoulders, gazed affectionately at him, and whispered:  “You must not despair, father.  You have a faithful ally in this house in Els.”