d that Ernst Ortlieb will have
nothing more to do with him."

Here the deeply incensed father pointed to the door.

Els had listened with eyes dilating in horror. The result surpassed her
worst fears.

She had felt so secure in her innocence, and the countess had interceded
for her so cleverly that, absorbed by anxieties concerning Eva, Cordula,
and her mother, she had already half forgotten the disagreeable incident.

Yet, now that her fair name was dragged through the mire, she could
scarcely be angry with those who pointed the finger of scorn at her; for
faithlessness to a betrothed lover was an offence as great as infidelity
to a husband. Nay, her friends were more ready to condemn a girl who
broke her vow than a wife who forgot her duty.

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 pa