Inside, abject squalor. A dirt floor, an ashy fire pit in the middle of the room. Black walls from its smoke. A bed made from rotting straw in which the old woman weeps, her tears congealing in the deep folds of her face. In the corner, a man lounges on a stool, his back propped up by the corner of the single, dark room, his youth replaced by the sallow visage of a drunk. Guarding the scene is the man at the door, his frame ragged and wiry, his thin hair plastered to a sweating forehead. Behind him, a young woman, her brown hair cut to her skull, presumably from lice, her face obscured by her father’s shadow.

“I have nothing for you, lord steward,” says the man, his fingers knotted in the fringe of his one linen shirt.
The situation sits like a stone in Siegfried’s gut. What can he possibly do to these people that would worsen the state they’re already in?
“Is that so?” He folds his arms.
“Yes. My offer is the same: I promise you my only son for service in the garrison and this house. These are all I have. I swear to you.”
“My god,” groans Siegfried. “I told you before, if your son were fit to serve he would be serving already. He is not even fit to weed a pea field. And this crumbling house? Of what use is it to me? All I ask is for a little silver. Whatever you have, it matters not the amount. Surely you’ve saved up something for a dowry?”

The man’s eyes blink back at Siegfried as empty as his pockets. “If I had such money it would be already in your coffers.”
For reasons unknown to him, something in Siegfried cannot help but mint this peasant more chances.
“Are you absolutely certain? Not a pfennig in the house? Not a silver bowl? Can you think of anything at all you can give me?”
The man bows his head, shakes it slowly. “I suppose. As you find my son useless, and that my house is worth nothing -- and after all, my wife has already given you her best dress -- the only good thing remaining to my name is my daughter, Petra.”