When Otto awoke, the morning light was already beaming on his windows, and the confused bustle of carriages and people in the streets mingled strangely with his nightly dreams. When he had shaken them off, he dressed as quickly as possible, and ran to the lattice; for he believed, from the noise, that something extraordinary must have occurred. In a short time, however, he became aware that the disturbance, which appeared to him so remarkable, was nothing more than what must be caused by the daily goings-on of life in a large town, of which no one took any notice; or rather, it would have been a cause of wonder and apprehension if the tumult had ceased. He bethought him also, that so many large houses, most of which were equal in extent to his father’s castle, must depend for their support on a great number of inhabitants, among whom there must exist many different feelings and dispositions, pain and pleasure, falsehood and sincerity, hatred and love, whence arose the varied and discordant voices around him. In the lonely fortress of Trautwangen, since the date of its building, how much had been suffered and enjoyed! But here in the town many hundreds of forsaken Berthas might weep, many wandering minstrels like Walter tune their neglected harps, and many old men like Sir Hugh mourn for the departure of their beloved sons. During these thoughts he was interrupted by a servant of Theobaldo’s, who came, bearing his armour and accoutrements, all brightly polished, offering at the same time to assist the knight in bracing them on. “You must forgive me, noble sir,” said he, while Sir Otto looked with satisfaction on his glittering mail, “if you should remark on the middle of the cuirass, right over the heart, one spot; it seems to be from blood which has lately settled there; but, as it was neglected for some hours, it has now turned into rust, which, as long as the armour lasts, cannot be effaced. But certainly, noble sir, this is not my fault.” “No, good friend,” answered Sir Otto; “it is, as thou sayst, no fault of thine.” He thus repeated the squire’s words in a slow mournful tone, fixing his eyes on the cuirass; whereon he indeed perceived plainly the blood of Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, which must have dropped on him as he was dressing his wounds. Henceforth he could not bear the thoughts of wearing that hauberk, and, instead of accepting the squire’s services, sent him away with a complimentary message to his master Theobaldo. “He had already a servant who would assist in putting on his armour, and who, though now absent, would soon arrive.” But, when left alone, he only walked up and down the room, and when he came near the cuirass, started from it as if it had been a spectre; or, when at last he forced himself to touch it, he only tried every art, which he had learned from his father and other warriors, in order to efface the rust. But the longer he laboured the more convinced he became, that such efforts were wholly in vain.