On the eve of St. Medard's Day in the year 1281, the moon, which had just
risen, was shining brightly upon the imperial free city of Nuremberg; its
rays found their way into the street leading from the strong Marienthurm
to the Frauenthor, but entrance to the Ortlieb mansion was barred by a
house, a watchtower, and--most successfully of all--by a tall linden
tree. Yet there was something to be seen here which even now, when
Nuremberg sheltered the Emperor Rudolph and so many secular and
ecclesiastical princes, counts, and knights, awakened Luna's curiosity.
True, this something had naught in common with the brilliant spectacles
of which there was no lack during this month of June; on the contrary, it
was very quiet here. An imperial command prohibited the soldiery from
moving about the city at night, and the Frauenthor, through which during
the day plenty of people and cattle passed in and out had been closed
long before. Very few of the worthy burghers--who went to bed betimes
and rose so early that they rarely had leisure to enjoy the moonlight
long--passed here at this hour. The last one, an honest master weaver,
had moved with a very crooked gait. As he saw the moon double--like
everything else around and above him--he had wondered whether the man up
there had a wife. He expected no very pleasant reception from his own at
home. The watchman, who--the moon did not exactly know why--lingered a
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