"Respect to the imperial colours, ye citizens of Schweidnitz!" exclaimed Tausdorf, and gave his horse the spur and the curb at the same time. The noble beast reared and struck about him with his fore-hoofs, to the sore dismay of those who held the reins, and who immediately let them go; and the knight, thundering out to the mob to make way, now struck the rowels into his horse's flanks. In an instant two powerful plunges freed him from his enemies. A loud cry of mingled joy and terror echoed from Althea's window, while Tausdorf sprang over the rabble that were rolling upon each other in confusion, and rushed out of the gates at full speed. "God be praised!" said Althea, as she left the window, exhausted by her feelings: "I was in terror for the brave knight." "In terror?--already in terror?" asked her uncle mockingly, and, going up to her, he seized her hand--"Look me fairly in the face, niece." For a moment she cast her eyes down, then raised them up to him with difficulty; but the effort to keep a steady gaze on her uncle's brow kindled a rosy glow upon her own. He went on, however, without mercy-- "And now, niece, as plain an answer: if this Bohemian should ever ask you to become his wife, would you in that case declare yourself as roughly as you have done this day to your other suitors?" "You torment me," said Althea, with gentle reproach. Her hand slipped from his, and she fled out of the room. "'Tis a clear thing!" said the uncle to himself--"Well, I have nothing to say against it; the man pleases me--I wish he were not a Utraquist!" * * * * * The lovely Agatha, the daughter of the city messenger, Onophrius Goldmann, sat at the window in her humble chamber. The spindle rested in her hand; on her lap lay an open volume of the songs and tales of the master-bards, but her hazel eyes wandered from the book to the darkening street, and her bosom heaved beneath its drapery. "Twilight," she exclaimed, "twilight is already coming on, and still my father does not return. O that no accident has happened to Francis!" At this moment, some one burst open the street door, and rushed into the chamber;--it was Francis Friend. "I have had a glorious row with the vagabond nobles," he cried, embracing the maiden roughly, "and the mad Netz has flayed my arm, but I think I have paid him for it, in a way that will make him remember me. Bind up the wound, Agatha." "Wicked man," replied Agatha chidingly, as she stripped off the sleeve through which the blood was welling; "you are always running wantonly into danger, and care not for the anxiety which I suffer on your account." "What, am I to let those vagabonds steal the horse from my stable? In the end they'll quarter themselves upon me, and drive me out of house and home." "You hate the nobles so violently, and yet have married the daughter of a noble!"