This last I said to cheer her, for she loved compliments on her cooking.  Though, strange to tell, I never saw her eat anything herself all the years she remained in our house.

When I was gone up-stairs again I looked about for the Little Playmate.  She was not to be seen anywhere.  There was only a tiny cosey-hole down among the blankets, which was yet warm when I thrust my hand within it.  But it was empty and the top a little fallen in, as if the occupant had set her knee on it when she crawled out.  A baby stocking lay outside it on the floor.

“Little maid!” I cried, “where are you?”

But I heard nothing except a hissing up on the roof, and then a great slithering rumble down below, which boomed like the distant cannons the Margraf sent to besiege us.  I listened and shuddered; but it was only the snow from the tall roof of the Red Tower which had slipped off and fallen to the ground.  Then I had a vision of a slender little figure clambering on the leads and the treacherous snow striking her out into the air, and then—­the cruel stones of the pavement.

“Little maid, little maid!” I cried out again, beginning to weep myself for pity at my thought, “where are you?  Speak to me.  You are my playmate.”

Then I ran to the roof, and, though the stones chilled me to the bone and the frost-bitten iron hasps of the fastenings burned me like fire, I opened the trap-door and looked out.  There above me was the crow-stepped gable of the Red Tower, with the axe set on the pinnacle rustily bright in the coming light of the morning—­all swept clean of snow.  But no little maid.

I ran to the verge and peered down.  I saw a great heap of frozen snow fallen on its edge and partly canted over, half covering a deep red stain which was turning black and horrid in the daylight.  But no little maid.

Then I ran all over the house calling to her, but could not find her anywhere.  I was just beginning to bethink me that she might be a fairy child, one that came at night and vanished like the dream gold which is forever turning to withered leaves in the morning.  At last I bethought me of my father’s room, where even I, his son, had never been at night, and indeed but seldom in the day.  For it was the Hereditary Justicer’s fancy to lodge himself in the high garret which ran right across the top of the Red Tower, and was entered only by a little ladder from the first turning of the same staircase by which I had run out upon the leads.

I went to the bottom of the garret turnpike.  The little barred door stood open, and I heard—­I was sure that I heard—­light, irregularly pattering footsteps moving about above.

It gave me strange shakings of my heart only to listen.  For, though I was noways afraid of my father myself, yet since I had never seen any man, woman, or child (save the Duke only) who did not quail at his approach, it was a curious feeling to think of the lonely little child skipping about up there, where abode the axe and the block—­the axe which had done, I knew so well what, to her father only the night before.