A soldier wantonly thrust me in the back with his spear, and I sprang towards him fiercely, glad to strike home at something.  But as quickly a man of the crowd pulled me back.

“Be wise!” he said; “not for your own sake alone, but for the sake of all these women and children.  The Black Riders seek only an excuse to sweep the city from end to end with the besom of fire and blood.”

Then came my master out of the Hall of Judgment, his head hanging dejectedly down.  As soon as he was observed the people crowded about, shaking him by the hand, thanking him for that which he had done for their maid, their holy Saint Helena of the plague.

“We will not suffer her to be put to death, not even if they of the Wolfsberg raze our city to the ground!”

“Make way there!” cried the Black Horsemen—­“way, in the name of Duke Otho!”

“Who is Duke Otho?” cried a voice.  “We do not know Duke Otho.”

“He is not crowned yet!  Why should he take so much upon him?” shouted another.

“We are free burgesses of Thorn, and no man’s bond-slaves!” said a third.  Such were the shouts that hurtled through the streets and were bandied fiercely from man to man, betraying in tone more than in word the intensity of the hatred which existed between the ducal towers of the Wolfsberg and the city which lay beneath them.

In my boyish days I had laughed at the assemblies of the Swan—­the White Wolves and Free Companies.  But, perhaps, those who had thus played at revolt were wiser than I. For of a surety these associations were yielding their fruits now in a harvest of hate against the gloomy pile that had so long dominated the town, choked its liberties, and shut it off from the new, free, thriving world of the northern seaboard commonwealths to which of right it belonged.

So soon as Dessauer and I were alone in my master’s room at Bishop Peter’s I tried to stammer some sort of thanks, but I could do no more than hold out a hand to him.  The old man clasped it.

“It was wholly useless from the first,” he said; “they had their purpose fixed and their course laid out, so that there was no turning of them.  All was a mockery, so clear that even the ignorant men of the streets were not deceived.  Accusation, evidence, pleadings, condemnation, sentence—­all were ready before the maid was taken; aye, and, I think, before Duke Casimir was dead.

“Also there is no court in the Wolfmark higher than the mockery we have seen to-day.  The arms of the soldiers of Plassenburg are our only court of appeal.”

“It is two days before they can come,” I answered.  “I fear me all will be over before then.”

“Be not so sure,” said Dessauer.  “There is at present no Justicer in the Mark capable of carrying out the sentence, so long as your father lies on his bed of mortal weakness.”

“Duke Otho will not let that stand in his way—­or I am the more deceived,” said I, with a heavy heart.