"What about the knight? Did he succeed?" she asked so anxiously that it broke Magdalene's heart to tell her the truth.
"David said not—but he would not tell what had happened."
"Maybe I can learn from Hans Sachs; he loves me very much, and may feel some distress over my trouble. I shall ask him." Just then Sachs came to the door of his house.
"Come, boy," he said to David, "put up thy work for the night, and get thee to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day. Put my stool and table outside the door that I may finish a pair of shoes, and then get thee to bed." David gathered up his tools, and after arranging Sachs's work bade him good night. Sachs sat down, with his hands behind his head, and instead of going at once to work, began to think upon the day's happenings—and other things, maybe. He leaned his arms upon the lower half of the door and sometimes spoke his thoughts aloud:
"Truly the young knight is a poet," he mused. Hans himself was a true poet, tender and loving, and he could think of nothing but Eva's good. Becoming nervous and apprehensive while thinking of her he began to hammer at a shoe, but again he ceased to work and tried to think. "I still hear that strain of the young knight's" and he tried to recall some part of the song. While he mused thus alone, Eva stole shyly over to the shop. It had now become quite dark and the neighbours were going to bed.
"Good evening, Master Sachs! You are still at work?" she asked softly. Hans started.
"Yes, my child, my dear Evchen. I am still at work. Why are you still awake? Ah, I know—it is about your fine new shoes that you have come, those for to-morrow!"
"Nay, they look so rich and fine, I have not even tried them on."
"Yet to-morrow you must wear them as a bride, you know."
"Whose shoes are these that you work upon, Master Sachs," she asked, wishing to change the subject.