It was a long night as I pushed onward through the mire.  For presently it had come on to rain—­a thick, dank rain, which wetted through all covering, yet fell soft as caressing on the skin.

I took shelter at last in a farm-house with honest folk, who right willingly sat up all night about the fire, snoring on chairs and hard settles that I might have their single sleeping-chamber, where, under strings of onions and odorous dried herbs, I rested well enough.  For I was dead tired with the excitement and anxiety of the day—­and at such times one often sleeps best.

On the morrow I got another horse, but the brute, heavy-footed from the plough, was so slow that, save for the look of the thing, I might just as well have been afoot.

Nevertheless I pushed towards the town of Thorn, hearing and seeing naught of my dear Playmate, though, as you may well imagine, I asked at every wayside place.

It was at the entering in of the strange country of the brick-dust that I met Jorian and Boris.  They were riding excellent horses, unblown, and in good condition—­the which, when I asked how they came by such noble steeds, they said that a man gave them to them.

“Jorian,” said I, sharply, “where have you been?”

“To the city of Thorn,” said he, more briskly than was his wont, so that I knew he had tidings to communicate.

“Saw you the Lady Helene?” I asked, eagerly, of them.

He shook his head, yet pleasantly.

“Nay,” said he, “I saw her not.  The Red Tower is not a healthy place for men of Plassenburg, nor yet the White Gate and the house of Master Gerard von Sturm.  But Mistress Helene is in safety, so much Boris and I are assured of.”

“Not with Von Reuss?” cried I, fear thrilling sudden in my voice that he had stolen her and now held her in captivity.

Boris held up his hand as a signal that I must not hurry his companion, who was clearly doing his best.

“She is with Gottfried Gottfried, the old man, your father, and is safe.”

“Did she go to them of her own free will, or did my father send for her?” I went on, for much depended upon that question.

“Nay,” answered Jorian, “that I know not.  But certainly she is with him, and safe.  The Count, too, is with his uncle, and they say also safe—­under lock and key.”

“Good!” quoth Boris.

“Let us all three go back to Plassenburg forthwith!” cried I.

“Good!” chorussed both of them together, unanimously slapping their thighs.  “Choose one of our horses.  He was a good man who gave us them.  We wish we had known.  We should have asked him for another when we were about it.”

Nevertheless, I rode back to Plassenburg on the farmer’s beast, sadly enough, yet somewhat contented.  For Helene was with my father, and far safer, as I judged, than in the palace chambers of Plassenburg, and within striking distance of the Lady Ysolinde.  And in that I judged not wrong, though the future seemed for a while to belie my confidence.