Outside the hospital stands one of the more formidable of the city gates. George, who was visiting Rothenburg for the first time, seemed fascinated by the fortifications. He nodded approvingly at the sections of wall that stretched out from both sides of the gate.

“They wouldn’t stand up against artillery, but I’d hate to attack the place with anything less. A roofed walkway all around for the defenders—arrow slits, I suppose, on the outer wall…?”

“That is correct,” Schmidt said. “They are proud of their wall, it is one of the best preserved in Europe.”

“Can you walk along it?”

It was a stupid question; we could see at least a dozen people up above, walking or leaning over the wooden rail that fenced the walkway on the town side. But Schmidt answered seriously, “To be sure you can. The walk is kept in repair.”

“But not now,” Tony said. “Where’s this restaurant? I’m starved.”

We had an excellent lunch, which included one glass of beer too many for me. Schmidt was glassy-eyed; he had eaten everything he could get his hands on, including a couple of extra platters of heavy dark bread. He announced his intention of taking a nap, and I had to admit it sounded like a good idea.

“I’m going to walk some more,” said Tony, with a meaningful glance at me. “See you later.”

He intended, of course, to search out the town archives. I really meant to look for the library, to keep my part of our bargain. But it was a hot day, and my stone-walled room was nice and cool, and the bed was soft. I didn’t wake up till Tony banged on the door, and I discovered I had just time enough to assume my best bib and tucker for the tea party.

My first sight of the Gräfin’s room at the top of the tower took my breath away. It was full of treasures; there was no sign here of the genteel shabbiness that marked the rest of the Schloss. An eighteenth-century Kabinett, with panels of painted silk, might have been designed by Cuvilliés. Next to it was a writing desk, French by the look of it, that had beautiful brass inlays over its leather surface. The sofa and chairs dated from Ludwig I; crimson brocade seats bore the Drachenstein arms in gold, and the wood was gilded. The Gräfin had a weakness for gilt, but she tolerated crasser metals; the massive silver tea service on the table looked like Huguenot craftsmanship. I have seen poorer work behind glass in several museums. The place was rather like a museum, a selection of the best of Schloss Drachenstein. Only the hangings at the window were new. They were expensive looking, made of crimson fabric as heavy as felt, embroidered with — you guessed it — gold threads.