“What thou art thinking of,” said Friedel, turning on him an eye that had not only something of the brightness but of the penetration of a sunbeam.
“I do not think thereon at all,” said Ebbo, gloomily. “It is a figment of the old serpent to hinder us from snatching his prey from him.”
“Nevertheless,” said Friedel, “I cannot but remember that the Genoese merchant of old told us of a German noble sold by his foes to the Moors.”
“Folly! That tale was too recent to concern my father.”
“I did not think it did,” said Friedel; “but mayhap that noble’s family rest equally certain of his death.”
“Pfui!” said Ebbo, hotly; “hast not heard fifty times how he died even in speaking, and how Heinz crossed his hands on his breast? What wouldst have more?”
“Hardly even that,” said Friedel, slightly smiling.
“Tush!” hastily returned his brother, “I meant only by way of proof. Would an honest old fellow like Heinz be a deceiver?”
“Not wittingly. Yet I would fain ride to that hostel and make inquiries!”
“The traitor host met his deserts, and was broken on the wheel for murdering a pedlar a year ago,” said Ebbo. “I would I knew where my father was buried, for then would I bring his corpse honourably back; but as to his being a living man, I will not have it spoken of to trouble my mother.”