He paused a moment and laid his hand on my shoulder impressively.

“And you, Hugo Gottfried, Hereditary Justicer of the Dukedom, Red Axe of the Wolfmark, art the man who must carry out that doom!”

Again he paused—­and the world seemed instantly to dissolve into whirling vapor at his words.  I had never once thought of such a conclusion.  Yet I was indubitably, by my father’s death, Hereditary Executioner of the Wolfmark.  Red Axe of Thorn I was, and by a terrible chance I had returned in time to be installed in mine office, even as the Lady Ysolinde had foretold.

But a strong thought swelled triumphant in my heart.

“Well,” said I, looking the sneering tormentor in the face, “if so be that I am your Hereditary Justicer, it will be long ere a sentence so monstrous shall be carried out by me.  I will not slay the innocent, nor pour out the blood of a virgin saint, for a million deaths.  You can torture me with all your hellish engines, and you will find that a Gottfried has learned how to suffer, as well as, how to make others suffer, in fourteen generations.  As God strengthens me, I will never carry out your sentence—­do with me what you will.”

“Nobly said, Justicer of the Mark!” said Otho.  “I had thought of that!  But in case you should refuse to do your lawful office, it may be well for you to remember that I have other instruments that mayhap will please you less.”

He threw open a door suddenly, and we looked into an underground hall, where a dozen men were carousing—­Duke Casimir’s Hussars of Death, black-browed, evil-faced, slack-jowled villains every man of them, cruel and sensual.  A blast of ribald oaths came sulphurously up, as if the mouth of hell had been opened.

“Listen!” said Otho, with his hand on my shoulder.

And a jest struck to our ears concerning the prisoner, the Little Playmate—­a jest which sticks in my memory to this day.  And even yet I hope to cleave the jester through the brain, meet him when I may.

The Duke shut the door, and turned to me again.  His eyes narrowed to a thin line which glittered with hate and triumph.

“If you, Hugo Gottfried, Hereditary Executioner of the Mark, refuse to do your duty at the time appointed upon the prisoner condemned, I, Duke Otho, solemnly declare that I will cast your fair and tender lamb into that den of wolves down there to work their wills upon.  Hark to them!  They will have no misgivings—­no qualms, no noble renunciations.”

Then he turned to me airily and confidently.

“Well, my good Justicer, will you carry out the just and merciful sentence of the law, and baptize your Red Axe with the blood of her for whose sake you chose to insult and wound a Duke of the Mark?”

I turned away, sick at heart.

“Give me time.  God’s mercy—­give me time!” I cried.  “At least let me see Helene.  I will give you my answer to-night.  But, first of all, let me see my beloved.”