It was on the stroke of seven, and as fine an evening as ever failed to touch the soul of sinful man with a sense of its beauty, that I set out to fight the nephew of Duke Casimir.  I had indeed ridden far and fast, and withal kept my head since I left the Red Tower a poor homeless wanderer, otherwise I had scarce found myself going out with High Councillor Leopold von Dessauer as my second to fight my late master’s heir, the proximate Duke of the Wolfmark.

What was my surprise to find the old man attired in the appropriate costume for such an occasion, a close-fitting suit of dark gray, of ancient cut indeed, and without the fashionable slashes and scallops, but both correct and practicable, either for the sword-play or the proper ordering of it in others.

Von Dessauer laughed a little dry laugh when I congratulated him on the youthfulness of his appearance.  Indeed, he seemed little grateful for my felicitations.  And if it had not been for the rheumatism which he had inherited from his father’s campaigns on the tented field, and the weakness which came from his own in other fields, he would yet have proved as fit for the play of fence as any youngster of them all.  So, at least, he averred.  And to-night the wind was southerly, and his old hurts irked him not.  Faith he was almost minded to try a ruffle with the cocks of the Mark on his own account.

“Mind you,” he said, “guard low.  The attack of the Mark ever comes from the right leg, half-way to the knee.  But I forgot—­what use is it to tell you, that are born of the Mark, and have learned sword-cunning in their schools?”

As we left the castle I looked about and secretly kissed a hand to that high window, where was the chamber of my Little Playmate, whose cause I was going out so gladly to champion.

Dessauer and I went quickly down through the lanes which led to the river edge where the ferry was, and more than once with the comer of my eye I seemed to see a man in a cloak and sword stealing after us.  But as the sight of a man so attired going secretly in the direction of the Hirschgasse was no uncommon one, I did not pay any particular attention.

We crossed over in the large flat-boat which plied constantly between the banks before our fine new bridge was built.  We found our enemies on the ground before us, and they seemed more than a little surprised when they perceived who my second was.  For as we came up the bank I saw them go close and whisper together like men who hastily alter their plans at the last moment.

I presented my second in form.

“The High Councillor Leopold von Dessauer, Knight of the Empire!” said I, proudly enough.

Then the Count presented his, as the custom then was among us of the North: 

“His Excellency Friedrich, Count of Cannstadt, Hereditary Cup-bearer of the Wolfmark.”

Count Cannstadt was an impecunious old-young man, who, chiefly owing to accumulated gaming-debts and a disagreement with Duke Casimir concerning the payment of certain rents and duties, had sought the shelter of the Castle of Plassenburg—­a refuge which the generous Prince Karl extended to all exiles who were not proven criminals.