m from the convent, she could journey a long
distance through the world; for there were plenty of carriers and
travellers with carts and wagons who would take her for a trifle, and the
vagabonds on the highway rarely left people like her in the lurch.

Probably, in former days, she had looked forward to the future with
greater strength and different expectations, yet, even as it was, in
spite of the cough and the painful pricking in her scars, she found it
pleasant so long as she was free and could follow whatever way she chose.
She knew the city, and limped through the streets and alleys toward the
tavern where the strolling players usually lodged.

On the way she met a gentleman in a suit of light armour, whom she
recognised in the distance as the Knight of Neckerfels, who had been
paying court to her before her fall. He was walking alone and looked her
directly in the face, but he did not have the slightest idea that he had
met madcap Kuni. It was only too evident that he supposed her to be a
total stranger. Yet it would have been impossible for any one to
recognise her.

Mirrors were not allowed in the convent, but a bright new tin plate had
showed her her emaciated face with the broad scar on the forehead, the
sunken eyes, and the whole narrow head, where the hair, which grew out
again very slowly, was just an ugly length. Now the sight of the bony
hand which grasped the cane brought a half-sorrowful, half-scornful,
smile to her lips. Her arm had been plump and round, but was now little
larger than a stick. Pretty Kuni, the ropedancer, no longer existed; she
must become accustomed to have the world regard her as a different and
far less important personage, whom Lienhard, too--and this was
fortunate--would not have deemed worthy of a glance.

And yet, if the inner self is the true one, there was little change in
her. Her soul was moved by the same feelings, only there was now a touch
of bitterness. One great advantage of her temperament, it is true, had
vanished with her physical beauty and strength--the capacity to hope for
happiness and joy. Perhaps it would never return; an oppressive feeling
of guilt, usually foreign to her careless nature, had oppressed her ever
since she had heard recently in the convent that the child on whom she
had called down death and destruction was lying hopelessly ill, and would
scarcely live till the joyous Whitsuntide.

This now came back to her mind. The jubilant sense of freed