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“These dogs are not to be trifled with,” whispered the huntsman to his companion, as he obeyed the robber’s command. “Really I am not afraid of my own life, but if I were to shoot down one of them, it might be so much the worse for my lady. I will consult with the countess.” Then turning to the robber he continued: “Give us a truce of half an hour in order to prepare the countess. It would kill her if she were to be informed of this suddenly.”

“Granted,” replied the robber, at the same time stationing a guard of six men on the stair-case.

Bewildered and irresolute, the unfortunate travellers followed the huntsman to the countess’s chamber, which was close to the stairs, and so loudly had the men spoken that the lady had not missed a word of what had been said. She was pale, and trembled violently, but nevertheless was firmly resolved to accept her fate.

“Why should I jeopardize the lives of so many brave men?” said she. “Why demand of you, to whom I am a stranger, an idle defence? No; I see no other chance of rescue than to follow these wretches.”

All were impressed by the lady’s spirit and misfortune. The huntsman wept, and swore that he could not survive this disgrace. The student reviled himself and his stature of six feet. “If I were only half a head shorter and had no beard,” said he, “I should know how to act; I would dress myself in the lady countess’s clothes, and these wretches should find out only too late what a blunder they had made.”

Felix also had been deeply moved by the lady’s misfortune. Her whole presence came so familiarly and affectingly before him, that it seemed to him as if the mother whom he had lost in his youth was now in this terrible situation. He would cheerfully have given his life for hers. And, as the student spoke, his words awakened an idea in his mind; he forgot all anxiety and every consideration but that of the rescue of this lady.

“If that is all,” said he, stepping forward timidly, and coloring as he spoke, “if only a short stature, a beardless chin, and a courageous heart are needed to rescue this lady, then perhaps I am not unfit for that purpose. Put on my coat, gracious lady, hide your beautiful hair beneath my hat, take my bundle on your back and go your way as Felix, the goldsmith.”

All were astonished at the youth’s spirit, while the huntsman fell on his neck in an ecstasy of joy. “Goldsmith,” cried he, “you will do that? You will slip into my gracious lady’s clothes and thus save her? The good God has prompted you to do it. But you shall not go alone; I will share your captivity, will remain at your side as your best friend, and while I live they shall not harm you.”

“I too will go with you, as true as I live!” exclaimed the student.

Much persuasion was required before the countess would consent to this scheme. She could not bear the thought that a stranger should sacrifice himself for her; she could not help thinking that if the robbers should afterward discover the deception practiced on them, they would take a terrible revenge on the unfortunate youth. But finally she was over-persuaded, partly by the entreaties of the young man, and partly by the reflection that if she was saved she would make every exertion to rescue her savior. The huntsman and the other travellers accompanied Felix into the student’s room, where he quickly threw on some of the countess’s clothes. To still further disguise him, the huntsman secured some locks of the maid’s false hair to the goldsmith’s head, and tied on the lady’s hat. All declared that he would never be known; while the compass-maker roundly asserted that if he had met him on the street he should take off his hat without the slightest suspicion that he was bowing to his courageous comrade.