Ebbo asked if the Genoese merchant, Ser Gian Battista dei Battiste, had indeed been one of his fellow-captives.
“Ha!—what?” and on the repetition, “Truly I knew him, Merchant Gian as we used to call him; but you twang off his name as they speak it in his own stately city.”
Christina smiled. “Ebbo learnt the Italian tongue this winter from our chaplain, who had studied at Bologna. He was told it would aid in his quest of you.”
“Tell me not!” said the traveller, holding up his hands in deprecation; “the Junker is worse than a priest! And yet he killed old Wolfgang! But what of Gian? Hold,—did not he, when I was with him at Genoa, tell me a story of being put into a dungeon in a mountain fortress in Germany, and released by a pair of young lads with eyes beaming in the sunrise, who vanished just as they brought him to a cloister? Nay, he deemed it a miracle of the saints, and hung up a votive picture thereof at the shrine of the holy Cosmo and Damian.”
“He was not so far wrong in deeming one of the lads near of kin to the holy ones,” said Christina, softly.
And Ebbo briefly narrated the adventure, when it evidently appeared that his having led at least one foray gave his father for the first time a fellow-feeling for him, and a sense that he was one of the true old stock; but, when he heard of the release, he growled, “So! How would a lad have fared who so acted in my time? My poor old mother! She must have been changed indeed not to have scourged him till he had no strength to cry out.”
“He was my prisoner!” said Ebbo, in his old defiant tone; “I had the right.”
“Ah, well! the Junker has always been master here, and I never!” said the elder knight, looking round rather piteously; and Ebbo, with a sudden movement, exclaimed, “Nay, sir, you are the only lord and master, and I stand ready to be the first to obey you.”
“You! A fine young book-learned scholar, already knighted, and with all these Wildschloss lands too!” said Sir Eberhard, gazing with a strange puzzled look at the delicate but spirited features of this strange perplexing son. “Reach hither your hand, boy.”
And as he compared the slender, shapely hand of such finely-textured skin with the breadth of his own horny giant’s paw, he tossed it from him, shaking his head with a gesture as if he had no commands for such feminine-looking fingers to execute, and mortifying Ebbo not a little. “Ah!” said Christina, apologetically, “it always grieved your mother that the boys would resemble me and mine. But, when daylight comes, Ebbo will show you that he has not lost the old German strength.”