But the day of deliverance was at hand.

As we came nearer to Thorn, there before us was the Red Tower, at first dimly apparent, then prominent, then commanding, finally rising higher than all the buildings of the Wolfsberg.  How many days had I not looked down from those windows!  And my father was even now up there in his grim garret, his heart stirring calm and kindly within him, in spite of all the atmosphere of blood in which his life had moved, as untouched as though he had been a gardener working among the flowers of the parterre.  Also the block was there, and against it the Red Axe was leaning.

Then I called to mind the prophecy of the Lady Ysolinde, that I should return to take up my father’s dreadful trade.  And I smiled thereat.  For I thought that now I came in other circumstances—­aye, even though riding in at The tail of the learned Doctor Schmidt with my shaven and chestnut-stained face, my flowing hair cropped to the roots, as in the manner of the servant tribe!  Yet for all that was I not the virtual military commander of the Plassenburg and the right hand of the Prince, whose forces would soon be clamoring against the walls of Thorn and bringing down to destruction the hateful tyranny of the Black Duke Casimir?

“What is that?” said I, pointing to a standard of immense size which drooped from the Red Tower.  It had been hanging limp and straight about the staff, and till now we had not observed it.  But as we went toiling up to the Weiss Thor, and the last links of road lengthened themselves indefinitely out before us in their own familiar manner, suddenly a waft of hot wind from the sun-beaten plain of the Wolfmark blew out an immense black flag, which spread itself, fluttered feebly, and died down again flat against the pole.

“Nay,” said the Doctor, “that I cannot tell.  Surely you should know the customs of your own city better than I!”

For the heat had made the High Chancellor a little snappish, as well perhaps as the length of the way.

“Never in my time have I seen such a thing float above the Red Tower,” I made answer.  “Can it be a flag of pestilence?”

It seemed a likely thing enough.  Cities were often made desolate in a few days by the plague—­the people running to the hills, a weird devil’s silence all about the gates.  These might well betoken the presence of a foe to which the army of Plassenburg would seem as a friend.

As we rode under the Arch of the White Gate of Thorn we were summarily halted to be examined.  We gave our names, and the Doctor showed his letters of authorization from a dozen learned universities.  The Black Hussar who examined our credentials was of a taciturn disposition, and evidently no scholar, for he studied the parchments intently upsidedown, and appeared to have an idea that their genuineness was best investigated by smelling the seals.

“Where are you bound?” he asked.

“To the house of the learned and venerable Bishop of Thorn!” said the Doctor Schmidt.