So I mustered all my courage—­not from any fear of Gottfried Gottfried, but rather from the uncertainty of what I should see, and quickly mounted the stair.

I shall never forget what I saw as I stood with my feet on the rickety hand-rail of the ladder.  The long dim garret was already half-lighted by the coming day.  Red cloaks swung and flapped like vast, deadly, winged bats from the rafters, and reached almost to the ground.  There was no glass in any of the windows of the garret, for my father minded neither heat nor cold.  He was a man of iron.  Summer’s heat nor winter’s cold neither vexed nor pleasured him.  So it was no marvel that at the chamber’s upper end, and quite near to my father’s bed, lay a wreath of snow, with a fine, clean-cut, untrampled edge, just as it had blown in at the gable window when the storm burst from the east.

My father lay stretched out on his bed, his head thrown back, his neck bare—­almost as if he had done justice on himself, or at least as if he waited the stroke of another Red Axe through the eastern skylight which the morning was already crimsoning.  His scarlet sheathings of garmentry lay upon a black oaken stool, trailing across the floor lank and hideous, one of the cuffs which had been but recently dyed a darker hue making a wet sop upon the boards.

All this I had seen many a time before.  But that which made me tremble from head to foot with more and worse than cold, was the little white figure that danced about his bed—­for all the world like a crisped leaf in late autumn which whirls and turns, skipping this way and spinning that in the wanton breezes.  It was the Little Playmate.  But I could not form a word wherewith to call her.  My tongue seemed dried to the roots.

She had taken the red eye-mask which came across my father’s face when he did his greater duties and tied it about her head.  Her great, innocent, childish eyes looked elfishly through the black socket holes, sparkling with a fairy merriment, and her tangled floss of sunny hair escaped from the string at the back and fell tumultuously upon her shoulders.

And even as I looked, standing silent and trembling, with a little balancing step she danced up to the Red Axe itself where it stood angled against the block, and seizing it by the handle high up near the head she staggered towards the bed with it.

Then came my words back to my mouth with a rush.

“For the Holy Virgin’s sake, little maid, put the Red Axe down!” I cried, whisperingly.  “You know not what you do!”

Then even as I spoke I saw that my father had drawn himself up in bed, and that he too was staring at the strange, elfish figure.  Gottfried Gottfried, as I remember him in these days, was a tall, dark, heavily browed man, with a shock of bushy blue-black hair, of late silvering at the temples—­grave, sombre, quiet in all his actions.

But what was my surprise as the little maid came nearer to the bed with her pretty dancing movement, carrying the axe much as if it had been an over-heavy babe, to see the Duke’s Justicer suddenly skip over the far side of the bedstead and stand with his red cloak about him, watching her.