The final house they approach stands tiny and alone among the swaying grasses and seems to sway with them. To call its condition sorry would be unfair to sorriness. Mildew lurks in the eaves and the whole structure leans precipitously to one side as though ready to concede to the weight of its roof. Beside the house, woven branches fence in a plot of land where only weeds grow tall, taking advantage of such fine soil. It is a shame, thinks Siegfried as he dismounts. It really is. He is uneasy, unsure of what will happen. Better to haggle than to punish, better to buy time than to steal it by the sword. But the haggling’s been done and the time has passed. A debt must be paid. Now things will go as they will.

“Knock on the door,” he says to Berard, who does so with a lackey’s certain glee, clamoring: “In the name of Frederick III, Lord of Pettau, open up!”
Nothing happens. The house is absolutely still.
“Damn you, when the steward calls, whoever’s there must answer!”

Again, silence, save for the started fluttering of a dove. Siegfried frowns. The shouting begins again but when it gets them nowhere he raises his hand.
“Enough,” he adds for emphasis. Then, switching to his mother tongue he threatens, “My, it seems there is no answer. I suppose we have no choice but to beat down the door and with it the whole house.”

The pause this time is short, but as Siegfried expects, the door opens just enough to reveal a crevice of black. Now its contents are no longer quiet. From the darkness can be heard the wailing of an old woman and the hissing meanness of a man imploring her to stop.
“I say again: open the door,” orders Siegfried sharply. And for him the door opens.