gold, it seemed as though she saw Lienhard before
her. She had already told Cyriax how she met the aristocratic Nuremberg
patrician, a member of the ancient and noble Groland family, whom his
native city had now made an ambassador so young. But what secretly bound
her to him had never passed her lips.

Once in her life she had felt something which placed her upon an equal
footing with the best and purest of her sex--a great love for one from
whom she asked nothing, nothing at all, save to be permitted to think of
him and to sacrifice everything, everything for him--even life. So
strange had been the course of this love, that people would have doubted
her sanity or her truthfulness had she described it to them.

While standing before St. Sebald's church in Nuremberg, the vision of the
young Councillor's bride at first made a far stronger impression upon her
mind than his own. Then her gaze rested on Lienhard. As he had chosen the
fairest of women, the bride had also selected the tallest, most stately,
and certainly the best and wisest of men. During her imprisonment the
image of this rare couple had been constantly before her. Not until,
through the young husband's intercession, she had regained her liberty,
after he prevented her kissing his hand and, to soothe her, had stroked
her hair and cheeks in the magistrate's room, did the most ardent
gratitude take possession of her soul. From this emotion, which filled
heart and mind, a glowing wealth of other feelings had blossomed like
buds upon a rosebush. Everything in her nature had attracted her toward
him, and the desire to devote herself to him, body and soul, shed the
last drop of blood in her heart for him, completely ruled her. His image
rose before her day and night, sometimes alone, sometimes with his
beautiful bride. Not only to him, but to her also she would joyfully have
rendered the most menial service, merely to be near them and to be
permitted to show that the desire to prove her gratitude had become the
object of her life.

When, with good counsel for the future, he dismissed her from the chief
magistrate's room, he had asked her where she was to be found in case he
should have anything to say to her. It seemed as though, from mingled
alarm and joy, her heart would stop beating. If her lodgings, instead of
an insignificant tavern, had been her own palace, she would gladly have
opened all its gates to him, yet a feverish thrill ran through her limbs
at th