I had another errand to take care of. By the time I finished, I was good and hungry. The dining room was full when I arrived. Glancing around, I realized I had been so absorbed by the small group of guests who occupied my wing of the Schloss that I had lost track of the others. The family from Hamburg and the honeymooners were gone. Most of the tables were occupied by a party of German students, husky, tanned youngsters who made even Tony look elderly.

George was brash and cheery as ever.

“Where were you two?” he asked. “I went downtown later, but I couldn’t find you.”

“We drank beer,” I said. “What did you do for amusement?”

“Went to church. I was breaking the Tenth Commandment—or is it the Ninth?”

“Coveting your neighbor’s goods?” Tony was not amused. “The Riemenschneider altar?”

“Yes. I’d steal it if I could think of a way to get it out of Germany. There’s another altar at Creglingen, across the valley. I think I’ll drive up there tomorrow.”

“It is considered his masterpiece by some,” said Blankenhagen suddenly. “I myself prefer certain figures in the museum of Würzburg.”

“We’ll have to see Würzburg,” George said. “Maybe after we leave here. How much longer do you plan to stay, Vicky?”

“I never make plans. I’m just a creature of impulse. Don’t let me interfere with your arrangements.”

Blankenhagen gave me an enigmatic look, and continued to be informative about Riemenschneider.

“He was one of the councillors of Würzburg. During the Bauernkrieg, he and eleven other councillors supported the peasants, and when the nobles captured the town he was imprisoned.”

“So he picked the losers,” George said. “He got his, I suppose.”

Blankenhagen shifted in his chair.

“They pierced his hands,” he said. “Never again did he do a work of sculpture.”

“Artists shouldn’t dabble in politics,” George said. “He should have stuck to his last, or chisel, or whatever he used.”

I wanted to hit him with something—something hard. I consider myself unsentimental, but I could not have joked about an atrocity like that. What made it worse was that George wasn’t joking. He meant what he said.

“He had at least the knowledge,” snapped Blankenhagen, “that he suffered for a cause he believed was right.”

“I wonder,” said George, “if that was any satisfaction to him.”

We spent the evening in the lounge, yawning at each other. Tony was silent and rather peaked-looking. For the first time in too long I remembered his injury. I hadn’t even had the decency to ask how he felt. Feeling guilty, I let him escort me to my room when the witching hour of ten struck. If he had asked me nicely, I might even have agreed to stay there. But he didn’t ask. He told me.

“Stay put tonight. That’s an order.”