So, as was natural, I became after that more than ever eager to join this most notable league of the White Wolf.

One night I had sat late talking to the Little Playmate, who was now growing a great maid and a beautiful—­none like her, so far as I could see, in all the city of Thorn—­a circumstance which made me more ready to be of Michael Texel’s opinion with regard to any flighty and irresponsible courting of the maids of the town.  For had I not the fairest and the best of them all at home close by me?  On this night of which I speak it was almost bedtime when I heard a knocking at the outer port, and went to open the wicket.

And lo! there was Michael Texel come all the way to the Red Tower for me, though it was by his own trysting that we had agreed to meet at the inn of the White Swan.  Nevertheless there he was.  So there was nothing for it but to bring him in.  I presented him in form to the Little Playmate, who had quite forgotten her Princess-ship by this time in the sweetness of being our house-angel of the Red Tower.

I saw in a moment that Michael Texel was astonished at Helene’s beauty, as indeed well he might be.  But she, on her part, hardly so much as glanced at him, though he was a tall and well-grown youth enough, with nothing remarkable about him save pale hair of much the same color as his complexion, and a cut on one side of his upper lip which in certain lights gave him a sneering expression.

But to Helene he spoke very carefully and courteously, asking her whether she ever went to any of the Guild entertainments for which Thorn was famous.  And upon her saying no—­that my father did not think it fitting, Michael said, “I was sure of it; none could forget if once they had seen.  For never in the history of Thorn has so fair a face graced Burgher dance or Guild festival, nor yet has a foot so light been shaken on the green in any of our summer outgoings.”

Now this was well enough said in its way, but only what I myself had often thought.  Not that the Playmate took any notice of his words or was in any degree elated, but kept her head bent demurely on her work all the time Michael Texel was with us.

Presently there entered to us, thus sitting, Gottfried Gottfried, who had come striding gloomily across the yard in his black suit from the Hall of Judgment, and at his entrance Michael instantly became awkward, nervous, and constrained.

“I must be going,” he said; “the Burgomeister bade me be early within doors to-night.”

“Is the noble Burgomeister lodging at the White Swan?” asked my father, with his usual simple directness, as he went hither and thither ordering his utensils without heeding the visitor.

“No,” said Michael, startled out of his equanimity; “he bides in his own house by the Rath-house—­the sign is that of the Three Golden Tuns.”

The Red Axe nodded.

“I had forgotten,” he said, indifferently, and stood by the great polished platter-frame over the sideboard, dropping oil on the screws of a certain cunning instrument which he was wont to use in the elucidation of the Greater Question.