if, in exchange, her
girl could possess such a wonderful gift of God; for, sharply as the eye
of envy followed Barbara's every act, she had never given cause to doubt
her chastity, and this Frau Hiltner considered greatly in her favour;
for what tremendous temptations must have assailed this marvellously
beautiful creature, this genuine artist, who had grown to womanhood
without a mother, and whose only counsellor and protector was a
crippled, eccentric old soldier.

As Martina opened the door of the sitting room a loud conversation in
men's voices became audible, and with the deep, resonant tones of the
syndic Barbara recognised the higher, less powerful ones of the man whom
she was seeking.

The kiss of the scarcely unfolded bud of girlhood, the child of a
mother whose presence in the Convivium had often helped her to curb an
impetuous impulse, pleased Barbara, and yet awakened the painful feeling
that in accepting it without resistance she was guilty of a deception.
Besides, she had not confessed, and it seemed as if, in feeling the
young heretic's kiss an honour, she were adding to the burden which had
not yet been removed from her conscience.

Yet she could not overcome an emotion of rare pleasure when Frau Sabina,
after beckoning to her husband, took her hand and led her into the
reception room. Erasmus Eckhart, the adopted son of the house, hastened
toward Barbara to greet her as an acquaintance of his school days,
flushing deeply in his surprise at her great beauty as he did so.

But the mistress of the house gave him no time to renew the relations
of childhood, and led her away from him to her husband and her
mother-in-law, a woman of ninety, to whom she presented her with kind,
nay, with extremely flattering, words. Barbara lowered her eyes in
confusion, and did not see how, at her entrance, Wolf's face had
blanched and old Frau Hiltner had sat up in her cushioned arm-chair at
the window to look her sharply and fixedly in the eyes with the freedom
of age.

Meanwhile the man from the hall had stationed himself beside the door
in the same attitude, with his hands clasped under his chin and his cap
between his breast and arm, and stood motionless. He did not appear to
be at ease, and gnawed his thick lower lip with a troubled look as he
occasionally cast a glance at the strong countenance of Martin Luther,
whose portrait, the size of life, gazed at him from its gilt frame on
the opposite wall.

Barbara di