“Don’t trouble yourself to explain, Master Hildprand! You can’t make me believe in your improvements,” replied Veit. “But be sure that I get my dagger before night at the Rebstock, do you hear?”
“My boy shall take it to you. Do you know where the Rebstock is, Florian?”
“Yes! that is where the baker’s boy was killed,” said the apprentice.
“It is not my usual resort,” said Veit, vexed at the remark which was far from complimentary to the knight’s choice of lodging, “but I am visiting an old acquaintance there.” Giving the apprentice a smart slap on the shoulder, he added: “You seem to have a glib tongue of your own, my boy, but you do good work, I see, and you are quick about it too.”
“Oh, he can polish that kind much better than the old-fashioned ones,” said the smith, with a glance of pride at the lad. “He is my sainted sister’s son and was born at Stans. He lost his father, mother, and all six sisters by the plague.”
“Ah! that evil plague,” sighed Veit; “it found victims in our family also. Now, good-bye, Master Hildprand.”
“Wait a moment, noble sir,” said the smith. “I will show you some more new things, among them a movable arrangement turning upon a pivot under the vizor. It protects the chin and neck, and will—”
“Curse you and your improvements. I have heard enough about them already,” said the knight as he hurried away.
The Rebstock stood in a blind alley, obscured by overhanging buildings. The reputation of the place was none of the best. It was patronized by the lower classes, and it was reported that its keeper received and sold the plunder stolen by the robber knights of that vicinity. In a little room which gave upon the narrow back yard, and was reserved for noble guests, sat Veit and Jörgel with a third companion. The latter was the young nobleman, Conrad of Waltihof, who is already known to us by name and who was invited to come there by Veit and participate in their plans during the great surprise which was to happen in the good city of Zurich that day.
It was already dark. A pair of tallow candles shed a feeble light upon a table near the window on which were some glasses of Alsatian wine and at which the three were passing away the time throwing dice. The faces of the players were flushed with the excitement of the game and their varying luck rather than by the effects of the wine, of which each could carry a heavy load. They disputed several times, gave vent to curses, and gesticulated as if they were about to fly at each others’ throat, but their quarrels invariably ended in words, not blows. Jörgel at first had won many times the ten shillings he owed Conrad, but he also frequently lost, and at last his losses increased so fast that his debt was very large. He cursed the caprices of the fickle goddess of fortune but consoled himself with the thought that these losses were trifling compared with the treasures he would soon acquire. “Ha! ha!” he roared, “there will soon be such a game as Zurich has never seen before.”