"If I have not before presented myself at your house," continued Otho, who felt it necessary to offer some explanation, but who could not without blushing attempt it, "it was because I felt it well to silence by my absence the slanders of envious tongues, and, believe me, my master, that such a resolution cost me dear. For you, excellent master, I hold deep respect and warm friendship, and I honor and admire your daughter, who to me is a model of beauty, of wisdom, and of modesty. Her praises are ever upon my lips, and sweet memories of her in my heart."
"'Tis well—very well," murmured the old sculptor; "but be careful, Sir Knight, you are treading upon her grave!"
And with trembling hand and flashing eyes, he pushed Otho, who unwittingly had trod upon the turfless space, back, back, far from the grave.
"Can this be true?" cried the knight, turning pale. "Mina dead! sleeping here! She so young, so beautiful, so tenderly loved! And you called me not, master, to accompany her to the tomb to weep with you!"
"You are very generous, Sir Knight; but what I would demand of you is not your tears."
"Need you, then, friends or aid? You know, Master Koerner, that since I have known you I have been but too glad to place my influence, my relations at your service, and I would now gladly offer you the benefit of my fortune. Speak quickly, I pray you. Command of me what you need or desire."
"I will first relate to you a tale of truth, and then demand vengeance of you," replied the old man, in calm tones but with glittering eyes. "Sir Knight, you presented yourself at my dwelling with the fervor of an artist and the submission of a pupil. You sought, you said, a nobler and holier goal than success at court or the triumphs of war; you wished with ardent heart and zealous hand to produce the sacred images of our Saviour, his virgin Mother, and the saints. And I believed you, Sir Knight; for to me art was more glorious, more fruitful, more divine than aught else on earth, because in art I found my mission, my recompense, my safety, and my life. But you deceived me; you, who pride yourself on your name of gentleman; and, while feigning to study my art, you were killing my daughter. Reply not; deny not my words," continued Sebald, fixing a lurid gaze upon Otho, whose words died on his lips. "She loved you, and for your sake died. But before condemning you, justice commands me to hear you. You yourself have just said Mina was wise, beautiful, and pure; that you lauded her virtues to the world: why, then, did you not wed her?"
"Because—because—" stammered Otho, blushing—"because, Master Sebald, your daughter was not noble. You well know, my dear master, that the customs of the nobility are sacred. Many a one of us is forced to silence the voice of his heart, lest, as they say, a stain should be cast on his escutcheon. Why was Mina a burgess's daughter and not a countess? But you yourself understand, my old master, that I, whose ancestors were counted among the companions of Charlemagne—that I could not take for my wife the daughter of a sculptor, without title, without crest or quarterings."
Otho pronounced these words in a low voice, with drooping head and downcast eyes. He dared not meet the glance of the sculptor, who remained a moment silent, and then spoke:
"Otho of Arneck, you have crushed the father and slain the child. As you say, the sculptor has neither title nor quarterings, but he has an arm for vengeance!"