He turned away to the back of the bed, and then, as if he saw something there worse than all the rest, faced about again quickly, saying, with some pathetic intonation of his lost childhood, “There is no need for them to point so at me, is there?  I did but my duty.”

“Father!” said I, gently touching his cheek with my hand as I used to do.

“Ah, what is that?” he said, quickly.  “Did some one call me father?  Let me go!  I tell you, sirs, let me go!  She needs me.  They are torturing her.  I must go to her!”

“Father,” I said again, putting him gently back, “it is I—­your own son Hugo—­come back to speak with you, to help if it may be—­to die for the Little Playmate if need be.”

“Hugo—­Hugo!” he said.  “Yes, yes—­of course, I know—­my little lad, my pretty boy!”

He pushed me back to look at me, eagerly, wistfully—­and then thrust me sharply away.

“Bah!” he said; “you lie!  What need to lie to a dying man?  My Hugo had yellow hair and a skin like lilies.  Yours is dark—­”

“Father,” said I, “I am here disguised.  Help is coming, sure and strong, if we can only wait a little and delay the trial.  But tell me all.  Speak to me freely, if you love your daughter Helene—­your daughter and my love.”

He sat up now, and motioned me to come nearer.  There was a dark, fierce, unworldly light in his eyes.  I set a pillow to his back, and went and kneeled by the bed as I used to do at good-night time when I said my Paternoster.

Then for the first time he knew me.

“Say your prayers, child!” he commanded, in his old voice.

So, though with the stress of wars and other things I had mostly forgotten, yet I said not only that, but the little Prayer of Childhood he had taught me.  And then I kissed him as I used to do when I bade him good-night.

“Yes,” he said, softly, “it is true, after all.  You are mine own only son.  Hugo—­I am glad you have come so far to see your father before he dies.”

I told him how I had come, and brought Dessauer forward, introducing him as one great in the kingdom where I was, and to whom I was much beholden.  He shook him by the hand with grave, intent courtesy, and again looked at me.

“Now, father,” said I, “we have no long time to bide with you, lest the new Duke come upon us.  We must hie us back to our lodging with the Bishop Peter, lest we be missed.”

My father smiled.

“Ye will live but sparely there!” said he, with a flicker of his ancient smile.

“Tell us how you came to this,” said I, “and, if you can, why Helene, our little Helene, stands so terribly accused.”

My father paused a long time before he began to answer.

“It is not easy for me to tell you all,” he said.  “I know and I have the words, but, somehow, when I try to fit the words to the thing, they run asunder and will not mix, like water and oil.  But see, Hugo, here is an elixir of rare value.  Drop a drop or two on my tongue if ye see me wander.  It will bring me back for a time.”